


Don't Stray

by getdownstaydown



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Artist Zayn, Blonde Zayn, Blow Jobs, Fingering, Flirting, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Shower Sex, So do I, architect Harry, backpacking AU, like a lot it's gross, of course he is they're in berlin, remember when zarry tattooed each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-01-12
Packaged: 2018-05-13 07:41:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5700430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/getdownstaydown/pseuds/getdownstaydown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He considers how close he is to becoming a cliché, falling back into his usual patterns and calling it something different, something deeper, because it’s <i>Zayn</i> and he wants to let himself have this.<br/>Rome was all the girl with freckles dusted across her shoulder and Budapest was moped rides with the sailor on leave, but this time Harry wants to splash himself all over the city before it starts to belong to a boy with ink stained fingers whose tongue presses behind his teeth when he smiles. He wants Berlin to belong to them both.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Or, Zayn and Harry both book single rooms in Berlin and get each other instead</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Stray

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! Some of you might know me as constellations on 1dff, probably because I still find ways to make het fic as gay as possible. But this is my first long form go around at slash. Thank you to everyone who read it on tumblr 5 months ago when it was apart of the autumn exchange and 5k shorter, and thanks to my friends who coached me through writing some truly inventive smut and helped me trace the ins and outs of Berlin from across the ocean. Just a note- I've never tattooed another person in my short life so just don't try this at home, cool? cool.

[](http://s135.photobucket.com/user/liz51093/media/dscollage2.jpg.html)

**Day 1**

“Jesus, fuck,” he grumbles.

Harry’s not a heavy sleeper, especially on trains. It’s pretty inconvenient considering the amount of time he spends tucked away in Eurail cars, ticking down a tally mark on the inside cover of his sketchpad every time he crosses a border. There are about six by now, but he’s hoping he can make it to ten before he runs out of money.

He doesn’t remember passing out when he wakes up with his face smushed up against the window and it takes him a few seconds to figure out where exactly he is. Lucky for him, he’s familiar with the sensation.

The Alps are gone, which makes sense, based on the rolling green country side whizzing past. The fields are tinged gold with the October autumn, barley ready to be gathered before winter hits. For now the scenery is so bright it makes his eyes hurt a little, but that could have just been his crushing hangover from the night before. The ache between his ears is half the reason why he accidentally on purpose missed the early train from Bern to Paris in favor of anything else heading north at a reasonable hour, because _fuck it_ , the best thing about cities is that they aren’t going anywhere anytime soon.

Harry is still exhausted from Rome, Milan, and the Cinque Terre earlier in the month, if not a little more tan and well fucked, but Switzerland had been a god forsaken nightmare. It rained whole time and they don’t even take the damned Euro, leaving him with a pocket full of Swiss Francs he can’t exchange for shit.

The loudspeaker crackles out an announcement over his head as he wipes a little bit of drool from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand and starts to wonder. Catching the hard consonants and the austere tone of the attendants, Harry remembers _oh_ , right, Germany. Not his first choice but on the upside, he could use a beer. His smile flickers on and he looks up and down the compartment, waiting for signs of life to come find him.

Harry makes a new friend by the time the train reaches Berlin, because of course he does. She’s bright and lovely and _totally_ never approaches strangers like this but is that Kafka he was reading? He doesn’t have the heart to tell her he’s only carrying the book because some aspiring writer in Prague pressed into his hands as a parting gift and he’s hoping to exchange it for a fresh sketchpad the first chance he gets.

Sometimes it seems like everywhere Harry goes the first person he makes accidental eye contact with takes it as some sort of sign that he’s dying to hear their life story. It’s not something that he ever does on purpose. Liam says he’s just got one of those faces and Louis thinks it’s the curly hair, the truth is that deep down, he doesn’t really mind. He’ll complain about it forever but Harry eats that shit up like a free meal.

By the time they reach the station he knows she’s American, backpacking her way to visit distant family up in the Netherlands, and that she likes indie folk, post-apocalyptic young adult novels, and Belgian chocolate better than Swiss. After they make out a little to pass the time Harry realizes she hasn’t even asked him where he’s from.

The thing about most people is that they love to talk about themselves and he finds it funny, really, how much others will give away if he just stays quiet long enough. His eyes are always bright and engaging and constantly on the lookout for his next distraction. Usually in the form of leggy blonde girls and dark eyed boys Harry kisses goodbye right from the start. They never stay long, only enough for Harry to draw as much out of them as he likes before he decides they were never what he wanted in the first place. And most people let him. 

The ease of it is probably what’s made him such a smug bastard. Or at least that’s what the aspiring male model in Slovakia said. He’s never thought very seriously about it. Harry takes and takes because it’s simple and a little bit romantic and you don’t have to look too hard at yourself when a different pair of eyes is staring back at you. Naturally, a stranger told him that as well.

This is kind of half the reason why he never seems to know where he’s going.

“Hey, Gem,” he presses his phone between his shoulder and his ear as he frowns at a transit map.

“Hey kiddo,” his sister chirps. “How’s the spectacular shag tour of the continent going?”

“Don’t call it that around Mum!” Harry yelps, nearly dropping his backpack onto the ground.

“Relax, she’s not here,” Gemma’s voice smoothes over. “I only wanted to check up, see where you’ve landed.”

“Uhh, Germany, actually. There’s a festival or something in Berlin and I figured I’d have to pass through here to get anywhere else so-” he already knows what she’s going to say.

“What about Paris?”

“I should have started north in the summer and gone south. It’s too cold.” he sighs, shifting his weight to his other foot. “Besides, I don’t want to go until I know for sure if I’m going to stay.”

“The architecture program starts there next trimester,” she lectures gently. “What? Do you think if you don’t come home Mum won’t be able to sway you either way?”

“Something like that.” Mumbling, Harry peers around the station and flashes his dimples at a passing couple. He grins when they trip over their luggage. “I dunno, I could get some sketching done here. It’s very modern.” His nose scrunches. “Weirdly clean.”

“Yeah, they’re like that.” Harry can picture her deadpan expression perfectly. “See if you can swing a decent hostel this time, I’m pretty sure that place you Facetimed me from in Bratislava was a brothel.”

Harry shrugs. “Probably. The girl I shared a bathroom with did have cash stashed everywhere. But I booked a single room this time,” he nods to himself. “I’m ready to focus up, I promise.”

“If you say so,” Gemma sing songs.

“Your faith in me is so touching.” There’s a fair amount of shuffling on her end while Harry scans over the directions to the metro one more time. “Hey, I’ll let you know how it goes in a few days, yeah?”

“Go on, she dismissed. “Love you.”

“Love you too.” The statement tastes unfamiliar in his mouth even though his sister and mother are usually the only ones on the other end of it.

Except for Liam, that one drunken night he fished Harry out of the fountain in front of the classics building at university, and Louis, after he blackmailed a bunch of freshers to get all of the pictures off Twitter. 

The area around the hostel is buzzing, in a manufactured, touristy way. Which is generally what happens when Harry finds places to stay at the very last minute in lieu of a stranger’s couch. But the building itself is industrial and modern enough in a dignified way that says at least no one has died there in the last five years, so he snaps a few pictures to send home.

An easy exhale presses out of him when he finally checks in and gets to his room. There’s a window, unlike the glorified jail cell he spend three days cohabitating with a pack of Chinese tourists in Milan, and the bathroom actually has a _door_. There are even sheets already neatly tucked over the bed, which Harry flops down on right away to stretch the tired out of his muscles.

As he lies there, he notices someone has graffitied a bright **_Might As_ Well, **on the whitewashed walls. Somehow it suits this whole wretched day. Shoving down his own set of sheets to the bottom of his backpack, Harry fishes out his toothbrush and meanders to the bathroom- right before he’s hit straight in the balls.

“Back away, man.” A sudden voice demands.

Harry doesn’t really have a chance to register the familiar North England accent while he’s sprayed in the face with… is that hairspray?

“What the hell?!”

“I don’t have anything for you to steal.” Someone shoots back, their voice wobbling slightly.

“This is _my_ room!” Harry hollers and scrubs at his burning eyes with the heels of his hands.

“Oh, oh shit.”

He hears footsteps and then there’s a clump of wet paper towels being shoved into Harry’s hand. He takes them with a sticky scowl.

“Was that really necessary?” He blinks as a slender, golden figure comes into focus, craning his neck at him cautiously.

“I’m sorry, mate,” he drawls and Harry can tell he’s only being civil to stave off a punch in the face. “It’s a hostel, you know, you can never be too careful.”

“Yes you can!” Harry shouts. “You definitely can! You couldn’t have considered that maybe you were in the wrong room?”

“I’m not.” The petulant rise of his tone doesn’t match up with the strong jawed man forming in Harry’s vision, his hair mussed just right and his full lips curved into a very attractive frown. “I booked this room three months ago.”

Harry shoves his head into the sink to wash out the rest of the hairspray out of his eyes, just so he can get a better look. “Seems like there’s been a mistake, then.”

The guy blinks back at him as Harry pulls his damp hair into a knot at the top of his head, and he clocks the curious once over he swoops across Harry's body. Suddenly, he feels too self-conscious of his own gaze, tracing the stark swirls of ink up and under the other man's sleeve like a secret that’s not meant for him. And he doesn’t want to bite at the mystery. At this point, Harry just wants to sleep.

“Look, I really am sorry. This is, like, my first time out on my own and- what’s your name?”

“Harry.” He sticks a hand out to shake but the kid only stares instead.

“Zayn,” he replies. “Wait, where are you from, Harry? You sound like-”

“Cheshire,” Harry finishes for him.

“Bradford.” They size each other up curiously.

“It would have been nice to run into a little bit of home out here,” he zeros in on the colorful tattoo splattered on his forearm, “Zap, if you hadn’t tried to blind me.”

Zayn bristles for a moment before letting out an amused sigh. “Come on, you’re fine.” Clapping him on the shoulder, Zayn brushes by to grab a few things from his locker. “We should probably go sort this out, yeah?”

They trek downstairs in silence, but the bored looking woman at the front desk only shrugs before admitting that with the festival next weekend, they might have overbooked. The best she can do for now, she says, is a cot and a voucher for a few free meals.

“Would you rather sleep in the bathtub?” She sighs when Harry throws up a ruckus and Zayn summons his most withering look.

Harry would be impressed with how quickly they band together if he wasn’t so annoyed. There have been worse set ups and far worse roommates, but this was supposed to be Harry’s chance to be alone. It’s almost cruelly ironic how much effort he’s exerted trying to get next to other people only to be thrown in with a beautiful boy, who seems to want very little to do with him, by accident. Zayn’s lips fold out in a pout as he haggles with the hostel’s manager and Harry thinks, hey, if anyone can make it work he can. In the end they take the deal.

 “With all the money we’re going to save on free food we probably won’t end up spending any time locked up in here.” Harry tries to make conversation as they maneuver around each other in the small room.

“Yeah,” Zayn pauses. “I’m not put off, it’s just that-”

“You don’t want to bunk with another random lad,” Harry supplies. “It’s not an issue for me personally, but I get it.”

To Harry’s surprise, Zayn laughs at him, deep and musical, and trains his eyes on the floor. “Trust me… that’s not it.”

And, _oh_ , that’s a nice little turn of events.

“Great.” Smirking to himself, Harry sneaks a quick once over while Zayn bends down to pull his backpack from under the bed and feels like a cliché.

“It’s a little complicated, I guess.” If Zayn’s chiseled face had the potential to look remotely sheepish, that would be the only way Harry could describe the lazy smile he throws his way. “There’s someone I’m going to be meeting up with in a week or so and I kind of wanted, like, a little bit of privacy?”

“Sure, no problem,” Harry nods. “Just stick a sock on the door and I’ll fuck off for a bit. Is it an online thing or…”

“Nah,” Zayn shakes off. “I met him last year at the festival. He’s-” Rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, the slightest bit of self-consciousness blinks through. “He actually doesn’t know I’m coming. But I thought, you know, things usually work out so I might as well.”

Harry finally notices the paint staining Zayn’s jeans and fingertips and whips his head to study the graffiti on the wall. “Was that you?”

“Not if anyone asks,” Zayn grins.

The sight makes Harry’s chest seize up for a moment, but he tells himself it’s just his asthma. “So,” he cajoles. “What’s this guy like, then?”

Zayn gives him a quick glance as if he could figure out how Harry’s going to react before he speaks. “Kind of, uhm, incredible,” he rushes out by accident.

Harry thinks it’s pretty cute.

Clearing his throat, Zayn juts his jaw in thought. “You know those people who truly just, like, do not give a shit? In a good way?” Harry does. “Niall’s a lunatic- that’s his name, Niall. And he’s got this laugh,” Zayn shakes his head. “I have a little bit of a weakness for an Irish accent and a nice smile. Ace in bed, too. I don’t usually do things like this but I thought… I was going crazy still thinking about him after I left, I guess.”

“No shame in that, mate,” Harry offers.

“My parents wouldn’t say so,” he averts his eyes. “They thing I’m off visiting schools.”

“Oh… I’m sorry.”

“S’nothing.” Zayn’s friendly mood slides into something darker and he grunts as he tosses his backpack onto the bed.

Harry’s lips pull into a thin line and suddenly this room sharing thing feels a little too private. He’s done this with dozens of other strangers before but none of them bothered to hold much of anything back. There’s no point when you’re never going to see the person again.

By the wry deflections that thread through Zayn’s startling honesty, Harry figures this is his way of protecting himself and being himself at once. It’s a lot to learn in one conversation, yet barely enough to go on. And really, it’s none of his business. They are strangers after all, someone was bound to act like it around Harry eventually.

“Life is short,” is all Harry comes up with, his charm bouncing around the room, unable to land.

“Suppose.”

“Hey, I’m going to go grab some food and check out the neighborhood,” Harry lets the sentence hang.

“Cool,” Zayn glances at him inscrutably. “Glad you can still walk after the number I did on you,” when he laughs, Harry’s breathing does the thing again. “See you around.”

 

**Day 2**

Zayn is already sleeping when Harry sneaks in that night and by morning he hasn’t moved. Harry tiptoes around, getting dressed in the bathroom and hiding the hairspray just in case.

Mitte opens up for him pretty quickly. The neighborhood is buzzing, packed, and friendly, with dozens of restaurants and shops and historic places to visit. Harry has trouble decided what to look at first. It turns out he doesn’t have to strain himself too much after he falls in with a pack of Swedish girls on holiday who invite him to wander to Alexanderplatz. By the end of the day Harry’s neck hurts from looking this way and that- bombarded by art and architecture and much more than he ever thought he would find here. It’s a pleasant surprise so far, most things go that way for Harry.

“Cheers,” he calls after the girls kiss him on both cheeks and scramble away in a fit of giggles that leave Harry shaking his head.

“Looks like you had a good day.” An easy voice off to his left startles him.

“Look who’s finally awake,” Harry counters.

“Blondes.” Zayn’s sprawled across a bench in the garden, smoking a cigarette and looking pleased as all hell. “I hate to say it, but you’re a little predictable, mate.”

“Oh you’ve got a read on me now, is that it?” Harry shoots back..

“No one learns how to sneak out in the morning that quietly without a little practice.”

Harry’s a little shocked, to be honest. “Miss me?”

“Oh, so much,” Zayn’s voice drags with a gleam in his eye as he snaps the notebook in his lap shut.

“Did you assault anyone interesting today?” Harry asks lightly.

“Haha.” Sarcasm suits him, Harry decides, all warm eyes and thick lashes and a biting smirk. “I just hung out, there’s this sick record store down the street that you should check out.”

“Yeah?” They fall in step down the path to the front door. “I haven’t listened to anything new in ages. It’s pretty sad,” he laughs. “I used to be in a band in college but we were _fucking_ terrible. What about you?”

“What about me?” Zayn smoothes a rogue strand of hair back into place.

“Your graffiti is even better than the art in the hallway, the hostel should hire you to do all of the rooms. Do you draw or-” Harry nods down at his notebook and Zayn seems to retract on instinct.

“It’s Berlin, I had to leave a tag somewhere,” he brushes off.

Harry half chases him earnestly up the stairs. “I’m just asking because I sketch a bit and I could always use the help. I’m an architect,” he pauses, scrunching his mouth to the side. “Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“It’s hard to explain.”

“Yeah,” Zayn nods like that is the end of that. “Same here.”

It isn’t until later that night, after their neighbors from across the hall drag them out to some cheap restaurant on the east side and they’re three beers in that Zayn lets Harry bring it up again.

“I’m working on a graphic novel,” he shouts over the music. “But I don’t know what it’s about yet.”

Harry whips his head around to make sure he isn’t misunderstanding, that Zayn isn’t talking to anyone else. “My best friend from home, Liam, he’s obsessed with all of that superhero shit,” he replies cautiously. “It’s pretty cool, reminds me of pop art.”

“Those are comic books,” Zayn rolls his eyes.

“Shows what I know,” Harry knocks his shoulder. “So you wanna, like, figure out where it’s going before you show anyone?”

“Gotta figure out where I’m going first, I reckon,” Zayn replies with that striking honesty again and yeah, Harry understands that.

They split apart for an hour or so and Harry people watches to pass the time. Vaguely he remembers that he’s supposed to be spending more time alone. He figures he’ll start tomorrow. Finding himself and all was a great idea in theory, but that can end up being pretty tricky when he prefers to spend half of his time as a fleeting dinner guest in someone else’s life.

When Zayn finds his way back he falls easily against Harry’s shoulder. “Can you do me a favor?” He murmurs in his ear.

Harry knew he’d come around, now they can get it out of the way. “Anything you want, babe.”

“What do you think of those two over there?” Jerking his chin across the room, Harry notices a startlingly attractive boy and girl and he wonders if Zayn is flat out ignoring his comment or if he’s only distracted. “They look like brother and sister, right?”

“If that’s her boyfriend I have some bad news for her based on the way he’s looking at you.”

Zayn throws back his head and lets out a whisky tinged laugh. “Back me up, yeah? She’s cute too. Not _my_ taste, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Harry drawls. “What about, what’s his name… Niall?” His voice rises in a sing song.

“Niall’s not here yet,” Zayn flushes, but he’s already sending a drink over.

Harry would have preferred a lad tonight, but he takes one for the team. Bruna is funny and smells like eucalyptus, besides, all night a finicky voice in the back of his mind has been comparing every boy he walks by to Zayn and he already knows why. He can feel the enamor creeping in already, making his blood run hot and his ears ring whenever he looks at him. It’s just like every other time with every other stranger, except it’s not.    

Because he recognizes his own game. Sneaking looks across the room, Harry clocks the way Zayn draws people in. The quiet nods and easy questions, head ducked and eyelashes batting with interest as his arm makes its way around to rest on the small of the back. Add in a little bit of running his fingers through his hair and he would be a ringer for Harry’s signature move and- hey, there it is. Zayn pushes back the swoop of his fringe, letting a single strand of jet black hair curl beautifully over his brow. The kid he’s chatting up looks like he's absolutely about to shit himself, and Harry doesn’t blame him.

After about an hour of humoring admirers, it all comes back around. “Harry.”

He nearly drops Bruna’s phone as he’s typing in his number.

“I’m knackered, do you wanna head out?” Zayn asks, brushing a hand across his back.

Harry raises his eyebrows as if to say _already?_ but shrugs an apology at the poor girl and follows him out into the street. The limbo between too late and too early twinkles in the early autumn chill, the moon casting slivers of brightness between the buildings. A glow backlights Zayn’s sleepy stagger and Harry decides very firmly that the fog is the reason he’s shivering.

“Poor guy. I think he got his hopes up about you.” He ventures once the silence starts to get heavy.

“Sometimes I just like to see what someone’s about,” Zayn pauses pointedly. “You know, the thing most people do before they try to take someone home.” Grinning at his own joke, his shoulders rise and fall.

“And then what?”

Zayn pretends to think before he answers with a lilting laugh. “Turns out I didn’t want to.”

“You could have let me have a crack at him,” Harry whistles.

“Really?” Zayn’s eyes flash golden in the street lights. “I wasn’t completely sure about you, to be honest.”

“My Mum always told me, _sexuality is a spectrum._ She said she knew by the time I was five.” He thinks of her voice, warm and high. “To me girls and boys were just… I dunno, people.”

“People aren’t interchangeable though,” Zayn replies, as if he were waiting for the set up.

“That’s not what I-”

“That girl seemed to really like you,” he presses, the hint of a question rising under his tone.

“Why’d you interrupt us, then?” Harry grumbles, falling behind while they pad down the stairs to the metro station and fumbles with his pass.

“Why’d you let me?” Zayn turns over his shoulder and glides his tongue over his teeth.

Giving him a steady once over, Harry pushes past him onto the platform to stare up at the arrivals screen. “Contrary to what you might believe, I’m trying to break the habit of screwing people I don’t know.” He corrects himself. “People I don’t _intend_ to know.”

“That’s very noble,” Zayn purses his lips.

Harry feels a bit extended past his skin. Sure, he swaps partners like playlists, but he’s aware that somewhere along the way everyone he’s passed left something behind. No one grows up unchanged and he never tried to, Harry just can’t look back and say when and where one shift or another happened. Or with who. Harry thinks the emotional distance keeps his compulsive habits from becoming too dangerous, even though he knows deep down that strategy only worked for Bukowski.

Zayn seems like more of a collector, recording every person and their place in his orbit before he moves on. Maybe it’s for the sake of it. Or maybe, despite his initial shyness, he simply knows how to carry a conversation like a normal fucking person. But he’s a beacon, reeling Harry in under his spotlight while Harry can only squint to find his shadow.

Distractions invade and replace. Zayn just sort of runs parallel. Harry can tell by the way he unintentionally urges him to project outwards, just far enough that Harry doesn’t feel the need to hollow out his mind to make room for someone else. The concept is a little too deep for an ale soaked night.

“You really think I’m predictable?” Harry takes the only empty seat in the car and grins up a challenge.

Zayn bites, curling his hands against the railing running across the top of the car and bracketing Harry in, their knees knocking as the train starts to move. “Only because I am too,” he finally says.

**Day 3**

It’s only a little creepy that Harry stares at a snoozing Zayn for nearly half an hour after he wakes up. Sure, he’s a fucking vision against stark white sheets, but Harry’s only trying to figure out what to do with him.

“Wake up,” he nudges Zayn’s shoulder before he can decide.

“Hmph?” Zayn’s inky eyelashes flutter open, endearingly soft against his cheekbones before he can compose himself. “What do you want?”

“Get up,” Harry tosses the nearest pair of clean pants his way. “We’re going out.”

“Are these mine or yours,” Zayn squints before, “wait, what?”

“We,” Harry enunciates through his toothbrush, “are going out. Unless you want to sleep all day again?”

“That would be nice, yeah,” Zayn mutters, but swings his feet onto the floor all of the same. “Why do you care how I spend my day, mate?”

“I’m too tired to make any new friends,” Scrubbing the taste of last night’s liquor out of his mouth, Harry shrugs.

“We’re friends?”

Harry pulls out his phone, opens Facebook to Zayn’s page, and pulls the trigger, mostly to hold himself responsible to whatever might happen later. If he builds the line himself maybe it will be harder to cross. He likes his mates better than the people he convinces to fuck him anyway, and he likes Zayn.

“We are now,” he waves the screen around.

Zayn runs a hand down his face before shaking his head, Harry suspects, a little fondly. “You don’t like to be alone do you?”

“Not really.”

“You should think more seriously about that.”

“Can’t hear you!” Harry disappears back into the bathroom, mostly so he doesn’t have to watch Zayn strip off his shirt. “We’re already late.”

It turns out that the museums on the aptly named Museum Island actually don’t open for another hour. They’re already miles from the hostel so Harry drops an anchor and waits. Zayn groans dramatically and settles after him with a granola bar on a stretch of grass across from the Berlin Cathedral.

“Go on then,” he calls, pitching a notebook and pencil into Harry’s lap. “You forgot this, Mr. Architect.”

Harry grimaces. “Yeah, erm, I wasn’t feeling up to it-”

“Are you telling me you dragged me all of the way out here… _not_ to work on your sketching?”

Harry takes it from him slowly and Zayn smokes a cigarette before throwing a forearm over his eyes and promptly falling back to sleep. The pencil feels oddly heavy in his hand, rolling over the callous on the edge of his right middle finger awkwardly until it settles. It makes it a little easier that Zayn just leaves the subject, no pushing, no prodding, no impatient whining or, on the opposite side of the spectrum, no nagging at how this trip is _meant to be educational_ and _doesn’t he have a lot to think about(?)_. Goosebumps prick up on his skin from the chill so he tries to mentally place himself inside of the building instead, within it, the way the walls hold up against the open air.

At first, he fixates on the complex embellishments on the dome. The designs strain at his hand and his eyes in the rising sunlight, but when Zayn sighs beside him, rolling his face over to nuzzle against Harry’s thigh, he stops overthinking it so much. He can’t possibly be wasting his time if someone else is wasting it with him, he figures. If his drawing is shit he can crumple it up and no one will be the wiser. The strong lines of the columns adorning the façade flow between the arching windows before he realizes what he’s doing.

Once his hand starts to really fly across the page and his neck hurts from looking up and back so damn much he has to remind himself to pay attention. To not just take what he sees at face value, but attempt to understand how the parts make up the whole. Looking at a range of the things Harry likes about buildings, cities, really, in general, his favorite is how they’ve come together from a dozen moving parts. Naturally, it’s also the most challenging concept to grasp.

Harry does tend to dwell on the aesthetic value, he likes pretty things. Pretty, shallow things.

Huffing out a yawn, Zayn stirs by the time the sun is tilting at 11 o’clock in the sky. They grumble over the price of a sandwich at a nearby restaurant and then again over the price of their ticket to the National Gallery. It’s worth it, though, for the way Zayn shuts right up in front of a canvas.

They hang around the old wing- because of its strange Greco-Roman design for Harry and the neoclassical collection for Zayn, perching silently on a bench while Zayn stares at the art and Harry stares a Zayn. Neither actually notices until Zayn starts a shaded outline of a Friedrich and sneaks a glance at Harry drawing the whole room around him. High square ceilings and neatly trimmed walls all bracketing a smudge of empty space in the middle that Harry doesn’t know how to begin.

It’s a little more relaxed in the modern wing, smoother, and no one seems to pay them as much attention. Harry likes to say he detests the way the twenty first century has plated glass and chrome over the classic, scribbled architecture of prewar Europe but, on the other hand, it’s also a travesty to hang a Kandinsky in a room without a window. Standing in the middle of the reflective floor on the ground pavilion, Harry feels booming and insignificant at the same time. Zayn laughs at him like he gets it.

“What have you got next on the docket, tour guide?” Zayn nudges him on their way out.

“Food?” Harry’s voice comes out a bit scratchy after so many hours of whispering and easy silence. “Then grab a drink?”

Zayn pats his pockets. “One or the other, H.”

Jumping a little at the nickname, Harry opts quietly for the former.

Their dinner is a little heavy and they pay for it in change after Zayn gives a half hour lament about how much money he wastes on Marlboro Reds. Though luckily for Harry, their waiter is a prick so he doesn’t feel too bad about nicking a bottle of wine from behind the bar while he takes forever with their check.

“Seriously?” Zayn hisses as they duck out.

“It’s Germany, they’ve got plenty more,” Harry grins, shoving it into his coat. “Besides it was a good day. We have to top it off right.”

“It was _okay_ ,” Zayn reins in his voice and lifts his chin. “Paris has the better collections, I would have gone there, I reckon, if it weren’t for the festival.”

“You’ve never been?”

Zayn shakes his head. “Kind of a shit way to spend a gap year, isn’t it? Staying home with my sisters and saving up money I don’t want to spend. Visiting the same city twice.”

“Oh,” Harry tunes in to the rhythm of their pace and tries not to overstep. “I have sisters too. Well, a sister. Feels like three though with her poking around my business every chance she gets.”

“Yeah, I heard you two,” Zayn ducks apologetically. “Arguing a bit? On the phone yesterday.”

“Speaking of Paris,” Harry throws out a halfhearted laugh while Zayn simply hikes his brows. “Well, erm, I’ve been thinking about moving there, actually. That’s what we were rowing about… there’s this program,” he wants to bite his tongue but he can’t. “But I don’t think I’m cut out for it, to be honest.”

“So you could study there if you wanted?” Zayn says more than asks, hushed. “And your family would let you? Just like that?”

“I have a scholarship- it’s complicated.” The words trip out of Harry’s mouth.

Zayn shoves his hands deep in his pocket and nods. Based on the way his jaw sets shut, Harry lets him be and considers for a second that maybe, compared to Zayn, his life hasn’t even seen the half of complicated. The decision in front of him is simply not that easy and he’s never been so good at that.

Things fall a bit quiet between the two of them for a while. Footsteps scuffle against the cobblestones, the sound keeping them company, and it’s nearly enough to keep Harry from nudging through with one comment or another. It’s not until Zayn has no choice but to speak up and question where Harry is leading him that the silence breaks.

“Uhhh…” Craning his neck to scan the visible skyline, Harry spins in a circle. “Here is good, I guess.”

“What are you looking for?” Zayn sighs.

“I’ll know it when I see it- ah,” Harry makes a beeline for a rusty, decrepit fire escape on the side of an apartment building. “Let’s go.”

“What, up there?” Zayn summons his most indifferent expression. “You’re not really going to-”

Harry cuts him off as he jumps to yank down the ascending ladder with a grinding creak. “Don’t think I won’t.”

“ _Now_ you’re all about the risks,” Zayn scoffs. “I’m not following you up there.”

“I guess I’m going to have to drink this all by myself then,” Harry’s grin gleams down in the moonlight as he plucks the bottle of wine out of his jacket.

He doesn’t look behind him to check if Zayn follows, something in his gut tells him he will. There’s a spontaneous streak in both of them really, that’s the only way people end up where they are. By the time Zayn sucks it up and makes the unsteady voyage up to the roof after him, Harry’s already digging out the cork with his pocket knife.

“Hey,” he jerks his chin. “Turn around.”

The skyline seems to hit Zayn like a punch in the face. From there, they can see the Berliner Fernsehturm needle piercing the sky between the high rises in the distance and the flat line of buildings in the foreground, illuminated by the thousands of street lamps and whizzing headlights below. The Spree River sends back up a distorted image, like another world.

“Christ,” he whistles out, at a loss. “Did you know this was up here?”

“Lucky guess,” Harry lords it over him until Zayn gives him the look. “I never know where I’m headed but once I’m there… I’ve got the map, sort of, up here.” He taps at his temple.

“How?”

“I can sense it, like on the inside,” he gestures his arms forward lamely. “Cities have always felt alive to me, connected, so when I’m standing somewhere, I can kind of picture where everything branches out from that point. I’d be a lot luckier if I could do that with life but you know, people can move. Buildings can’t.”

Zayn only blinks at him, but his eyes are wide and as bright as the hanging moon behind him. It’s kind of grossly unfair how lovely he is.

“We could probably get a better view from the TV tower or the Reichstag,” Harry’s voice drops with self-consciousness before he points to a large, glittering dome in the distance.

“Nah, I probably can’t smoke in there.” 

Harry laughs. “I thought you were kicking the habit?”

“Been inside all day, haven’t I?” Zayn replies warmly, casting his eyes back out over the skyline and lighting up one more spark in the glittering night. “Is it supposed to look like this? So mismatched?”

Scratching at his jaw, Harry pulls out a pencil and paper from his backpack reflexively and traces the uneven rise and fall of the rooftops before he can really explain.

“It’s hard, you know, when you have a whole city torn apart by something as big as a war. By what happened here.” He thinks of the joyfully graffitied parts of the fallen Berlin wall, and then of the haunting, grey blocks that sprawled so far in every direction that it put a lump in his throat at the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe.

“This city… it’s patchwork,” Harry pauses again. “Something was there once before, and then it wasn’t, but then something new, something entirely different was made up out of the scraps. Even though you’d think they wouldn’t exactly fit.”

“Maybe that’s why it works,” Zayn murmurs.

Harry brings the bottle of wine to his lips with a shaky hand, he’d almost forgotten it was there. “I used to be more traditional but now,” he changes tract, “it’s kind of like the more I see the more I like the idea that there’s room to shift.”

“You seem to really get this stuff.” Handing off the bottle, their fingers brush.

“There’s a lot that goes into it,” Harry muses. “Crossed wires and roads and- my mum wants me to be a civil engineer. Take care of the logistics of it.”

“I’m guessing you don’t.”

“It’s a respectable living at a steady job. My dad died when I was fifteen and I-” he stops again and Zayn lets him take his time getting there. “I’ve got to act like the man of the family but I’ve never been much good at it.”

“There are a lot of ways to act like a man,” Zayn exhales heavily, mouth stained red from the wine. “Taking care of yourself is one of them.”

Harry doesn’t know why his tongue is flowing so freely now but he doesn’t try to stop it. There’s no end game to holding back and it’s hard to lie in front of the skyline. In the end it always knows the full story.

“I’ve studied all of the logistics and it just doesn’t have as much heart,” Harry shakes his head. “I think I could build the foundation- bridges and what traffic light goes where and all that, and be perfectly happy.” A smile starts to quirk at the corners of his mouth. “But the personality is in the buildings.”

“I see that,” Zayn squints out. “Individuals living in parts of a whole.”

“Yeah,” Harry rasps. “Exactly.”

“With their own little story, history, like, well, like us. Like anyone,” Zayn continues softly. “It makes sense, H, maybe the buildings aren’t so different from people. New cities, new people.” He exhales a ring of smoke and smirks through it. “And we all know how fond you are of new people.”

“You like people too,” Harry deflects.

His vocal chords crack and he feels quite a bit naked. Not in a good way.

“I do,” Zayn muses calmly.

“See, you aren’t better than me,” Harry grumbles.

“I never said that, H. I’ll admit it.” His eyes go golden and fond. “I like to let things- painting or writing or other people make me feel something, even if it’s just for an hour or two. The way we’re doing right now.”

Harry knows he’s referring to the architecture sprawled out in front of them, but a jolt in his chest keeps him warm as the wind picks up around them. They’ve ended up leaning in so close to hear the other talk, Harry can make out the pattern of his breathing. It opens up with the breeze.

“Is this about the other night?” Zayn laughs.

“Maybe.”

“I mean, I might have given you a hard time.”

“You think?” Harry deadpans. “You started it.”

“I know. I don’t mind being alone, though. I like myself.” He rolls his eyes when Harry barks out a laugh. “I’m probably drawn to new people because it’s exciting. I grew up in a really tight family, protective, and they’re my favorite people in the whole world but I went without knowing anyone who wasn’t like me for a long time.” His eyes flick up as if he’s trying to see if Harry understands. “They warned me against putting too much of myself out there.” He rubs over the bold tattoos on his forearm absentmindedly. “But I never fit in exactly with them either. So I might tend to do the opposite.”

“You could just enjoy it,” Harry leads. “Being out here, scaling buildings with strangers, tearin’ up the place.”

“I know that. I do.” Feet dragging, Zayn moves a little closer. “I really fucking do.”

“Then you know what you should write your graphic novel about,” Harry offers after a beat of quiet.

“What?”

“You.”

The air changes, and something sparks heat into the center of it like a lighter. Zayn’s cigarette is smoldering, forgotten, in background, next to the bottle of wine knocked on its side.

Something deep in his gut pulls Harry forward as he runs a finger over the bold, graphic ink on Zayn’s skin. “ _Zap_ ,” he whispers.

When his eyes drift back up, Zayn doesn’t bother to hide the interest lighting behind his gaze. It drops down the slope of Harry’s cheek bones, to his mouth, to his neck. Zayn cocks his head and thumbs at the swallows peeking out of Harry’s neckline, wetting his lips when Harry leans into the way he lingers.

“Your family, they aren’t okay, with, erm…” Harry suddenly doesn’t know how to ask.

“They haven’t asked,” Zayn’s voice is low, but it shakes all the same. “They don’t really look and I don’t show them. I draw and I… I think before I speak, even when I don’t want to.”

“What would happen if you met someone?”

Suddenly, ochre eyes are blinking off past him into the distance and Harry can feel the connection between them snapping like a wire from the strain.

“I don’t know,” Zayn clears his throat. “I would hope they loved me enough to trust my judgment and believe that I don’t need them to protect me.”

Guilt drops in Harry’s stomach for even bringing it up and he thinks, _stupid stupid stupid_ , he’s gone and pushed too far. It’s never happened like this before with anyone else. The again, no one has ever pushed back this hard with him, either.

“That’s what I like about him.” He wasn’t expecting Zayn to keep talking so Harry flinches a bit at the sound. “He hasn’t got that stickiness, you know. Grey area.”

“Who?”

“Niall,” Zayn runs a hand over the back of his neck.

“Oh…” Harry looks away. “Right.”

When Zayn says another boys name something under Harry’s skin aches and he doesn’t know why.

Zayn doesn’t seem to notice. “I think he could be the real thing. I need someone who isn’t sorry for who they are, if that’s not the sappiest thing you’ve ever heard.” He takes a step back. “It’s crazy. He’s so sure.”

“Shit, it’s getting late.” Pulling back, Harry pretends to glance at his watch even though it’s still set to GMT. “The lad at the front desk told me about this after hours rave in **Kollwitzplatz-”**

“Yeah, have at it,” Zayn’s already looking around for a way down. “I’m gonna head back, though. The festival is in a few days and I don’t want to tire myself out.” 

Harry always forgets that most people, just like him, have other things going on below that he can’t see. 

 

**Day 4**

For a solo trip, Harry has spent a remarkable portion of it in the company of others. It’s something he’s used to- growing up, his home had been a hub for all of his and Gemma’s friends, and his crowded flat at uni exists in a constant state of motion with Louis and Liam crashing about in the background, half in love with each other and the noise they make even though neither of them know it yet. Harry supposes he understands himself best as a part of a whole, and there’s nothing wrong with that.

Just today, maybe, he wants to witness what the other side feels like.

When a perky couple approaches him in the hostel lobby early that morning, Harry begs off their offer to join them for breakfast. He keeps both of his earbuds in on the metro, and even now, in the bustling plaza, he keeps his eyes trained up at the incredible buildings and pretends he can’t feel the lingering stares. It’s flattering, but hollow.

He’s forgotten how much more it means when he can meet a pair of eyes he understands, and that understand him back.

Sipping his cappuccino he considers how close he is to becoming a cliché, falling back into his usual patterns and calling it something different, something deeper, because it’s _Zayn_ and he wants to let himself have this.

But he also has to admit that he’s not his usual self here. Berlin has yet to swallow him whole- he can’t look back and say that about anywhere else. This fleeting week serves as a perfect opportunity to lose himself in yet another person, but it’s because of Zayn that Harry realizes he wants his head to himself for a while. Rome was all the girl with freckles dusted across her shoulder and Budapest was moped rides with the sailor on leave, but this time Harry wants to splash himself all over the city before it starts to belong to a boy with ink stained fingers whose tongue presses behind his teeth when he smiles. He wants Berlin to belong to them both.

Maybe this is only a pit stop he’ll look back on in twenty years and laugh at the way his romantic notions wrestled with the pragmatic. Or maybe he’s finally found someone greater than his whims. Either way, he’s got to figure his shit out before Paris.

In retrospect, going on this trip alone was pretty much asking for trouble. But as long as it’s unavoidable, he might as well invite the trouble along.

**Day 5**

Realistically, Harry taps out on his self-imposed isolation around the 16 hour mark. A Scottish alt punk band playing a gig at the pub where Harry grabs dinner has an unlimited bar tab and a swanky hotel suite to offer, so Harry doesn’t end up back in Mitte until around 7 p.m. the next day.

He smells like he’s just crawled out of a dumpster and doesn’t look much better. The shirt he’s wearing definitely belongs to someone else who smokes a lot of weed and uses far too much cologne, but it kept people away from Harry as he sketched the blocky exterior of the nHow Hotel all morning. He’s still buzzing with the fullness of the last 24 hours as he tumbles back into the hostel, but it doesn’t settle until he finds Zayn sitting on the windowsill nursing a cigarette.

The sharp tang of fresh paint hits him second, followed by one of his own boots tripping him up where it’s been strewn across the floor.

“Hey,” Zayn seems distracted, and if he has anything to say about Harry’s absence he doesn’t show it.

“What’s up, man?” Harry jerks his chin and hopes it looks cool.

“Sorry, I…” Zayn scrubs apologetically at the bright yellow stains on his clothes. “It got boring around here. Got a little lost first,” he scratches at the back of his neck. “I heard there was this sick graffiti artist collective somewhere on the east side but I almost ended up out in the suburbs.”

“That’s why you need me,” Harry quips before stopping himself. “Erm, I have a few guide apps I can show you, if you want.”

“Yeah, cool cool.” Stubbing out the last of his cigarette Zayn hops down to study the makeshift mural on the wall.

It’s a pattern of stars and the sky, fanning downwards in graceful swirls to meet the start of what Harry thinks might be a skyline. _His_ skyline. He sneaks a glance under his eyelashes and sure enough his spare notebook from the other day is propped open on the bed. The whole thing feels a bit unfairly intimate, but Harry doesn’t mind. Zayn was there with him, it makes sense.

“I was just itchin’,” Zayn is saying. “And paper felt too flat. Do you ever get on these bends, like… it’s a mood, maybe, but it’s got color, or- or shape?”

“Definitely,” Harry whistles out. “I had one of those today, actually. I gave some of those new buildings a chance, you know, all that glass and angles and I really got into it,” he shakes out his hand for effect. “I think I wore out three pencils with all of the shading.”

“Is that where you were?” Hazel eyes dart over and away from him. “I mean,” Zayn clears his throat. “All day?”

“Around, yeah. Went to this insane university library, you’d like it actually, mate, and down around the government buildings,” Harry tilts his head noncommittally. “We can go back out, if you want-”

“Nah,” Zayn waves him off, until he takes is pause. “I think what I really want right now is some new ink, but I don’t have the cash.”

“Oh, I’ve been jonesing a bit as well.” Disappearing into the bathroom, Harry rubs absentmindedly at the jut of his hipbone.

Maybe it’s an artist thing, or a human thing, but he can always sense on his body where he’s meant to make the next mark. His skin is about as far as most of his impulses go, anyway, unless it makes contact with a pen or someone else’s touch.

“Actually, I might have something we could try!” Harry calls while he rummages through his toiletry bag. “It’s not much, but my flatmate from uni, Louis- you’d like him a lot, I think, Zap. He-”

“Don’t call me that.” Zayn warns through the door.

“ _Anyway_ , he made me this, sort of, like, do it yourself kit?” Harry pokes his head out just in time to catch Zayn shaking his mane of thick, dark hair back into his beanie. “Uhm…”

“Have you ever done it before?” Zayn definitely notices Harry’s face going a bit stupid, and grins. “A homemade tat, I mean.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry shakes out his ankles to show off the scrawled _never gonna … dance again_ on each. “Lost a bet on this one.” Next, he rolls up his sleeve to uncover the _You Booze You Loose_ arched around a bottle of wine. “Lost my wallet on this one.”

Zayn’s eyes light up a little and he pokes the bible on Harry’s bicep with his tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek. “You’re a strange kid. What is this heart-”

“On my sleeve,” Harry supplies brightly.

“That’s quite a bit of bullshit on your part isn’t it?” Zayn’s eyes roll as usual, but Harry likes to think there’s a bit more affection there than the last time. “I’ve got the feeling that I’m the first person you’ve met so far to learn your last name.”

“It’s a metaphor.”

Zayn snorts. “You are not in charge of choosing what I get. What either of us get.”

“That’s the only thing,” Harry frowns at the designs covering the wall. “You said you’re in the mood for something colorful and I can’t really… not like you. So if you want something bigger-”

“It’s fine. I did a fair bit of writing today, when I got sick of painting. I’m feeling something a bit crowded…” he pinches his fingers together and then squints back over at Harry’s sketchbook. “How’s your handwriting, H?”

“Decent.” Harry likes where this is going.

“Do you think we could do something kind of like yours?” Zayn asks, a bit shyly all of sudden. “What you said the other night was pretty cool,” he mimics Harry’s drawling husk. “ _Don’t think I won’t…_ I’ve been stuck on that.” Their eyes catch for a heartbeat. “Quite a bit, actually.”

“Yeah,” Harry breathes. “Might as well.” A slow, syrupy smile blooms across his face. “Heyyyy… _might as well._ ”

The sharp angles of Zayn’s face go soft for a moment. “I’m gonna want credit for that one. It’s a Zayn Malik original.”

“Well it’s going on my body, isn’t it?” Harry replies, studying the graffitied moniker on the wall. “Not like I can run off and sell it.”

“Think about it,” Zayn says carefully, as if Harry might change his mind. “I’m gonna run downstairs and get some rubbing alcohol and extra bandages.”

Harry hops in the shower for a quick wash down and doesn’t bother to put a shirt back on, really hoping that this all is going to lead somewhere with much less clothing before he remembers he shouldn’t. Staring at himself in the mirror, he thumbs at the V of his hips again. Besides professionals, the only other people in the world he’s let tattoo him are his roommates, so it makes sense, really, with Zayn. They live together too. _Technically_.

Harry can work an excuse off of that, easy.

“So,” Zayn blinks a startled look out of his eye when he bursts back through the door. “Wow, so…” His gaze drags up Harry’s happy trail, over his abs, and to his collarbones. “You have four nipples?”

It’s not a lie, but it’s also not what Harry was expecting him to say.

“Yup,” his lips smack a bit obnoxiously and Zayn is back to huffing at him. “Where…?”

“My arms have gotten a bit full,” he laments, tracing a finger up his supple skin. “Maybe my wrist.”

Harry looks absolutely ghostly in comparison to Zayn, but they do look nice together, he thinks. They’d look better naked with pink flushed cheeks and chasing lips but he promptly shakes the idea from his head.

“What do you think?” Zayn’s voice knocks him out of his rambling inner monologue.

“What?” Harry finds Zayn with his shirt hiked up around his belly button and his mouth goes dry.

“I’ve got this on here…” Zayn’s thumb rubs over the jet black heart on one hip. “So I was thinking we could do the other side.”

“Yeah, fuck, perfect, mate. I mean-” he ducks his head and clears his throat sternly. “I was thinking the same for myself.”

“So...” Zayn’s words drag again. “You can do me first? And you can show me, like…”

“Yeah.”

“How different can it be to a shop?” Zayn sits himself on the bed with a fair bit of uncertainty.

The nervousness behind Zayn’s movement as he slips out of his shirt can only make Harry laugh. In the end, life is fair. That much sex appeal would topple nations if there wasn’t a slightly geeky, grumpy, soft hearted person underneath with too much going on in his head than he knows what to do with and the best concept of color and space that Harry’s ever seen. And the worst way with words. 

“Relax,” he shakes out his shoulders. “I’ll sketch it out first.”

Zayn’s skin is warmer than Harry remembers, that night on the roof. He blazes like a furnace. Harry half expects his fingertips to singe but instead Zayn shivers, his heel thumping against the bed as Harry makes the first mark. It pulls at his neck to kneel above him, so Harry has to awkwardly sidle down Zayn’s body, pressing his torso between his knees. They mumble out permissions and Zayn quickly puts on a playlist from his iphone to drown out the sounds of their breathing.

“Alright?” Harry peers up to find Zayn already looking at him.

It’s a bit like staring into an eclipse. Except ten times worse because the moon and the fucking sun have never made Harry feel the need to reach for his inhaler. Zayn has one of those faces that makes Harry wish he was more talented, that he could even begin to understand how to create something so beautiful. He settles for etching a particularly neat _n_ into Zayn’s hip and ignores the zing of energy shooting down his spine. He ignores the way Zayn sighs like he can feel it too.

“I’m a bit more sober than I’d like,” Zayn presses out.

“Considering you’re going to be inking me next, I think that’s a good thing.”

“Ah,” Zayn’s abs tense for a second and his hand shoots down to fist in Harry’s hair. “Fuck, sorry. It stings.”

“It’s okay,” Harry answers quickly, before Zayn can let go. “I meant to pull it back in a bun. That bit around my face is falling in my eye line, erm, would you mind?”

“Oh, uh… sure.” Fingers twitching, Zayn tucks the loose strands behind Harry’s ear and lingers for a note, trailing his hand down Harry’s shoulder and back to rest on the bed.

“Thanks,” Harry flashes his dimples.

“Christ,” Zayn mutters.

The hot thread of eye contact breaks when Zayn throws his head back, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. Compared to his larger tattoos this couldn’t possibly hurt that much, but Harry can feel Zayn’s pulse bumping under his touch all of the same while his fingers twist in the cheap cotton sheets, teeth gnashing under the rolling Frank Ocean track. The free show almost makes Harry overdraw the second _t_.

It’s a little heady to him how easy it is for Zayn to let him do this. It doesn’t make sense that all the sparing words and knowing looks add up to a person who lights up under someone else’s gaze. Everything about him comes out in unplanned fragments that make Harry feel like filling in the blanks between with his own. But that’s okay, Zayn seems to like it when other people leave their traces. It’s a little, well, a lot, self-centered to assume everyone is guarded in the same way he is, and of course it makes Harry curious, but he doesn’t let his shaking fingers wander.

“Uhm.” His thumb barely brushes the jut of Zayn’s hipbone as he clears his throat. “All done.”

“Ahh, sick,” Zayn exhales out.

His legs shake as he strides over to the mirror on the back of the door to take a closer look and Harry has to bite his lip. The wild look in Zayn’s eyes and the swagger in his step as he walks back are too over the top to be an accident, and too raw to be put on. He’s just present in the moment: pushing Harry back on the mattress and shaking his head, laughing when he lets out a little yelp in surprise. So close but not quite.

Harry manages to get his shit back in line by the time Zayn finishes applying the ointment and bandaging himself up. Keeping his face blank, Harry grits his teeth when Zayn rolls his waistband low to swab alcohol over the flat plane of skin where his left hip meets his thigh. Harry definitely doesn’t flinch when Zayn manhandles him to sit on the edge of the bed, and Harry _really_ doesn’t make the most pathetic little noise he’s ever heard when Zayn drops to his knees between his legs.

“Are you sure that’s… like, comfortable?” Harry’s voice wobbles.

“Yeah, yeah.” Sticking his tongue out in concentration, Zayn doesn’t look up from inking the sterile needle. “If I lie on my front it’ll upset the wound.” His hand pats in the general direction of his new tattoo. “Are you ready?”

 “Mhm.”

“Last chance.” Zayn seems amused by the whole thing, staring up at Harry like a devil on earth.

“Come on now,” Harry sighs. “Don’t tease me.”

“Me tease _you_?” Zayn shakes his head again, but before Harry can react the needle is digging into his skin.

“Oh there it goes,” his voice jumps in surprise. “You’re right this does hurt a bit more sober.”

Zayn hums, gripping the outside of Harry’s thigh tightly to yank his lower half slightly more off the bed before flattening his forearm across his lower belly. Harry blinks around incredulously as if to ask all of the imaginary people in the empty room if they’re really seeing this too. Because if they’re alone, like _truly_ alone, he’s in big trouble. The flesh where Zayn’s free hand rests crackles hotter than where he’s actually piercing the skin. Harry tries desperately not to shift underneath him.

“Ah.” He fails miserably, hips ticking when Zayn accidentally ghosts his wrist over the crotch of Harry’s track pants. Harry sends up a quick thank you to the geniuses at _Nike_ for making the material a bit binding. “Sorry.”

“S’ok, man, happens to the best of us.”

Harry thinks he sounds very smug for someone who isn’t supposed to be aware of the effect he has on him. “What?”

“Some people have that _thing_ ,” Zayn’s tone leads. “When they get tatted… it’s a turn on.” He grins wickedly. “I get it.”

“No-” Harry sputters. “What? I’m just… it’s hot in here.”

Zayn’s eyebrows hike and it would be attractive if this turn of events wasn’t going so horribly sideways. Beads of perspiration are pooling at his hairline but Harry can’t move an inch. Because Zayn’s round, deceitfully innocent caramel eyes are shining up at him and his lips are bitten red and Harry _wants_. Worse than he has in a long time.

“You’re sweating, pupils dilated,” Zayn murmurs. “So what is it then, if it’s not the ink? A little pain kink?” Suddenly, Harry feels a swift, tugging pinch on his nipple and he gasps.

“Shit.” His head lolls back and his tongue feels heavy and foreign in his mouth.

“Look at that. Close enough.” Zayn’s breathy laugh fans humidly over Harry’s bare skin. “I knew you liked it when I pulled your hair, yeah?” His nails scratch along Harry’s V line. “S’good for you.”

Harry wants to tell him no- well, yes to _that_ , but no, it’s not the pain, it’s just him. Whether he’s fucking with him to get back the upper hand or if he smelled a challenge, sensing what Harry was after two nights earlier and trying to get there first, it’s Zayn that’s making him feel so out of control, like his skin is too tight for the pounding of his heart. The screeching halts and fast sprints between them do Harry’s head in. This was never supposed to be on the fucking table or he never would have gotten so close.

“You love telling me what I like,” he rasps out. “What makes you think you know?”

“I’ve already told you.” Zayn pauses, punctuating his words before he says them with the final press of the needle into Harry’s hip. “Because I like it too.”

Harry’s blown out gaze fixes on the intricate pattern tattooed across Zayn’s hand, watching the swirls of black and gold curl into a fist as his knuckles drag down the thick outline of Harry’s cock through the fabric. There’s a ringing in Harry’s ears keeping him from understanding just how loud he’s breathing now, mind drawing a blank on how to react besides stare back in fucking _wonder_. Straightening up off his forearms, Harry curls his fingers around the edge of the bed for some semblance of self control as Zayn sits back on his heels, waiting.

The line of Zayn’s jaw catches the light and Harry can’t look away. The air around them hangs too heavy to fill with words. Harry can’t make out the stakes or any sort of preconceived endgame in Zayn’s gaze, as if he’s finished holding back what he wants. By the fire licking behind his smirk, tongue pressed behind his canines, Zayn seems to want Harry to come and get it instead.

And _fuck_ Harry wishes he could.

“Yeah?” Zayn’s voice comes out rough, as if they’d already been at it for hours.

Harry fists the beanie off of Zayn’s head and watches as his hair tumbles softly across his forehead. The sight shouldn’t send a zing of warmth shooting through Harry’s limbs, vibrating at the base of his spine like an atom bomb. They’re too close. Which was the whole fucking _point_ , by the way- that despite Harry’s unchecked flirting, it was alright to go there because Zayn was supposed to be waiting on someone else. The best this could ever be is transient and it’s infuriating, cliché, but he likes Zayn too much for that. Harry likes _himself_ around Zayn too much.

“Zayn, I- I need to get this wrapped up.” Shooting to his feet, Harry takes in a gulp of air. “It’s getting late-”

“It’s barely 11,” Zayn levels, jaw jutting to the side but otherwise unmoved.

“It is, yeah” Harry nods. “I just feel a little off, I think I might, uhm, need to clear my head or something.”

He practically throws himself into the bathroom before the look on Zayn’s face robs him of a better excuse. His back lands against the closed door with a thud and he turns on the sink right away, filling the air with sounds of running water so no one, including himself, can hear how quickly he wrestles down his joggers. The relief opens the floodgates. Biting down on his hand, Harry wraps a hand around himself and tugs, stifling the sharp moan at the back of his throat.

“Fuck.” His eyes screw shut as he brushes a thumb over the head, knees nearly giving out at the pressure.

It takes everything in his power not to think about dark stubble scratching his inner thighs, lean ribbons of muscle, and long, nimble fingers until he comes. He still fails. Maybe it’s the wanting what he can’t have which gets him but, god, Harry thinks, that is so _fucked_ and boring. It’s actually kind of sad that Harry’s so used to just taking whoever places themselves in front of him, and letting them do all the work to the point that the slightest thrill of the chase has him tumbling over the edge. Standing there with his hand shoved into his briefs like a teenager, Harry feels ridiculous.

Until he hears what’s going on past the other side of the wall. Or at least, what he thinks is going on. He writes off the suspicious creaking on the cheap, wooden bed and the rustling of cast off clothing but, Christ, he can’t exactly deny the rest he hears spilling through.

“ _Oh god.”_ Harry swears he catches Zayn whimper. “ _Yeah, just like that.”_

The telltale glide of skin on skin threads through quiet sighs and breathy pants and Harry can tell that Zayn’s trying to cover it up. His imagination conjures up jaw dropping pictures of Zayn muffling himself with a pillow or his own palm, his hips bucking up desperate into his other hand. He’s just so damn loud and into it and _fuck_ this is bad. Groaning, he ducks his head so he can’t see his wild reflection staring back the mirror and bends over the sink, pressing his forehead against the cool porcelain.

Zayn lets out a deep sigh when he comes and Harry doesn’t even pretend not to listen. Or that he doesn’t think about it when he gets himself off again in the shower. He already knows he’s done for. Honestly, he’s known all along.

**Day 6**

The only thing that’s outwardly different between the two of them the next morning is that Zayn is up first. They’d both slept soundly, curled up facing their respective walls, and when Zayn strides past to chuck a muffin at Harry’s face for breakfast, he even seems a little more relaxed. Harry bets that all they both needed was a good wank, yeah, that was it.

“I’m gonna go run some errands,” Zayn slurs, still a bit sluggish with sleep.

“Cheers,” Harry replies through a mouthful of banana nut crunch.

Zayn halts by the door. “You gonna be here later?”

“Nah, I thought today I’d haul out to see the proper historical stuff. I try to take at least a day everywhere I go, the time just got away from me this week, I guess.” Harry presses his lips together awkwardly. “Would you, erm, do you want to come with?”

“No thanks.” Zayn shrugs his backpack higher up on his shoulder. “It’s a great city but I’ve never really cared to hear about the German side of the war. I’ve got a few Jewish friends, one whose grandfather was Romani, you get it. I just visit the memorials.” He shakes his head. “It still a bit hard walking around here as a Muslim, sometimes it makes me feel… I don’t know. In-between?”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“It’s like-” he stops himself. “Never mind.”

“Alright, man,” Harry stammers. “See you later.”

After he leaves Harry wonders if maybe he had it wrong those first couple days. If one of the reasons Zayn kept so close to the hostel wasn’t shyness, but because he didn’t feel like walking out alone into a world he wasn’t certain would accept him. Harry understands, as far as he can. No one has ever said or assumed anything about him based on the way he looks, and it’s another way he’s luckier than he can imagine.

Backpacking by yourself is nerve wracking enough, Zayn’s so much tougher than Harry gives him credit for. What Harry assumed was so sparing about Zayn at first has started to come into picture as pure thoughtfulness, an ingrained control over the way he presents himself to world because that was the way he had to be. Battling outside definitions and constantly fielding a muted fear of the things that make him who he is because he couldn’t be sure if he was allowed. His family must be desperate to protect him from it, Harry is too.  

But by the way it bursts out of Zayn in little, silent ways- the packed dialogue bubbles in the drafts of his graphic novel, the bright letters of graffiti, his borderline compulsive interest in the lives of others- Zayn must only succeed halfway. Everything always find their way out somehow.

He thinks about it as he wanders through the East Side Gallery. The art of the resistance bounces off the walls at him and the colors push back the way they were meant to, rebelling against the limits imposed from all around. There’s a fierceness there he had never been forced to feel until he went on this trip and walked the same paths as people who grew up in different worlds and different situations, whose stories weren’t there to be devoured selfishly and then left behind.

He hadn’t noticed it sinking into his subconscious until now. In a rush, Harry remembers every single person he’s met these past few months: their names, the way they smiled when they told him about their hometowns and their families, their ambitions and faults, and Harry can’t understand how he let them all blur together. Their stories were always more promising to him than the wayward meandering inside his own head. But he let them slip away without learning a thing.

When Harry gets to the gate, he thinks about himself. How he wants to move and create and _say_ something but he’s afraid he doesn’t know how. Harry has to stop for a second, letting a uniformed student group push by him. It’s too simple, but he hasn’t admitted that to himself before now.

He just never thought he could do it, but he wants to. And isn’t that enough?

He doesn’t have the time to dig too deep, thank god, Harry thinks. There’s people bloody _everywhere_ and he has never been one to get too existential. That only really suited him in Prague.

 _SOS_!!! Zayn texts him in bold letters as it starts to get dark.

Harry laughs and wonders why he wished so hard for it to be awkward between the two of them.

Zayn is too endearing, in his quietly stubborn way, scowling at the mirror when Harry walks in to find him covered in stinking hair bleach.

“It’s already done so don’t say anything,” Zayn talks over the first syllable of Harry’s snarky remark. “Just get me a towel, would you? I got it all down my back.”

“Why,” Harry snorts. “Just…. why.”

“I’m gonna put some silver over it,” Zayn huffs. “It’s gonna look sick for the festival.”

“You’re a little bit of an impulsive maniac on the inside, aren’t you?”

“And you’re a little bit late on the uptake,” Zayn shoots back, his vanity getting the best of him as he frantically tries to salvage his perfect eyebrows from the mess. “I followed a boy I barely know to a foreign city, first of all. That was brilliant. I lied to my family about it as well, so now not only do they think I’m straight, they think I’m in Leeds-”

“What?” 

“ _And_ I painted an entire mural that I _hate_ on our wall. It’s tacky as shit, why didn’t you tell me, mate? I wasn’t about to think that one through.” Groaning, Zayn sends Harry a bitingly accusatory look in the mirror. “Not to mention all of the ridiculous things I let you drag me into-”

“Please, you’ve been a boy scout,” Harry dismisses. “Nearly.”

“This is what happens when I’m away from home for too long,” Zayn mumbles, and then stops himself. “But I guess I know what I’m doing.”

“Sure,” Harry drawls.

“My hair is going to look great, you’ll see.”

“I believe you,” Harry grins to himself at Zayn’s babbling.

When he stands still, Zayn is all classic black and white, the mysterious hero in the foreground, but when he opens his mouth it hits Harry fast and bright like technicolor. He’s surprised that more people don’t hit the ground with a dizzy spell on contact.

Zayn fusses over the instructions on the box while Harry dabs the dye away from the skin at his hairline with a wet washcloth, fingers tracing carefully over the tattoo and the base of Zayn’s neck and down the knobs of his spine.

Zayn shivers. “Cold,” he sighs.

“Sorry.”

But Harry keeps going before he means too. He wipes behind Zayn’s ears, his teeth digging into his bottom lip as the tips flush pink. Zayn quiets down as Harry’s hands count the rungs of his ribs. Harry makes bad jokes at him under his breath and Zayn shakes his head, body relaxing at the firm press of Harry’s thumbs into the dimples at the small of his back.

“You’re very thorough,” he remarks softly.

Harry reaches around to tap at the fresh bandages covering the tattoo on Zayn’s hip. “I try.” He remarks, noting the way Zayn’s pupils blow at the sensitivity. 

“What time is it?” Clearing his throat, Zayn rolls out his shoulders and looks around the room for his phone. “I’m supposed to wash this stuff out in… _shit_.” Zayn gives a horrible wince just as Harry starts to notice the rash blooming where the bleach had touched his skin. “Ow, FUCK. It’s burning.”

“Shit.”

“Get it off me!” Zayn panics.

“Okay, okay!” Harry scrambles.

His wide eyes dart frantically around the room for a split second, until he clocks the closest solution and then he’s dragging Zayn over to the shower. He stumbles as he steps in, fisting his hair in his gloved hands like it will somehow help and Harry thinks, fuck it, and pushes in beside him to keep Zayn from slipping and cracking his skull as he yanks the water on. The cold hits his face like a rush to the system. Clearly, by the way he starts stuttering beside him, mouth gaping, Zayn doesn’t fare much better.

“Fuck,” his teeth chatter dramatically while both boys start to scrub away the dye.

“It’s almost out,” Harry tugs at a stark, blonde strand of Zayn’s hair. “Hold on.”

“It still hurts.”

“Come on,” Harry claps him on the shoulder and recalls the day they met. “You’re fine.”

Their eyes catch through the stream of water and slowly, they both start to laugh.

“You look like a drowned puppy.” Zayn pulls at the thigh of Harry’s soaked skinny jeans until he smacks his hand away.

“And you look like Madonna,” Harry mutters back.

Of course it suits him, the motherfucker. Zayn’s irises gleam a near hazel under the mop of bleached hair and his thick, dark facial hair looks stunning as a contrast. He could have shaved a bright orange Mohawk and he’d probably still rival every model out there without even trying. And he looks so concerned, watching Harry paw through the shorter length at the side of his head as he waits for a verdict, his breathing short and shallow.

“Relax.” Harry drops his grip to squeeze the back of Zayn’s neck reassuringly. “You were right,” he grins. “It does look sick, mate.”

“Yeah?” Zayn rasps out, stare never leaving Harrys face.

He feels Zayn’s eyes lazing down to his mouth before he notices the slide of fingers inching up the hem of his sopping wet shirt. The gloves are gone and all of the dye has washed down the drain, but they stay stock still, standing transfixed in front of each other. His eyes squeeze shut as Zayn palms the soft flesh on his hips and when he lets himself look again, Zayn’s close, so close that his forehead is nearly bumping Harry’s nose while he pushes the fabric up above Harry’s abs. Gulping down as much air as he can, Harry raises his arms above his head, knowing he can’t go back. Zayn takes his time stripping his shirt off, making himself at home with the flat of Harry’s belly and the nipples he seems so fond of, brushing his thumb over each one as they peak up under the freezing water. He wrings Harry’s shirt out in his hands- smirking, waiting- before chucking it across the room.

In one swift move, Harry is there, reaching out to cup Zayn’s face in his hands. He stops to watch the beads of water pool at the tips of Zayn’s eyelashes for a beat of a second, and then he’s falling forward, slotting their lips flush together. They collide like an avalanche, feet slipping against the tile floor as they stumble to wrap themselves up closer.

Twisting his fingers through Zayn’s hair, Harry licks a laugh into his mouth as Zayn’s nails dig into his sides in return. Everything is moving so fast yet he can clock every touch. Harry makes a small sound in the back of his throat and Zayn surges forward, bending him backwards with the force. Their hands slip and slide all over wet skin, goosebumps bursting under roaming fingers and needy tugs on clinging clothing.

Their fresh tattoos smart as their hips grind together, yanking a deep hiss out of Zayn’s throat that Harry swallows it like he’s starving. Zayn is so so much, pricking fireworks under Harry’s skin at every point of contact while his nails rake across his shoulder blades and his tongue runs behind his teeth. It makes everything else feel sloppy and invigorating and rough in contradiction. Rolling his tongue past kiss chapped lips, Harry tries to catch up with their racing heartbeats.

“Need you,” Zayn mumbles against the corner of his mouth.

Harry forgets to breathe, so caught up in letting Zayn envelop him completely that he has to pull away to cough the water out of his lungs. Zayn only laughs and shushes him, trailing his biting teeth down the column of Harry’s neck before settling on destroying his clavicle. He’s panting, squirming, but it doesn’t feel like enough. Harry wants Zayn all over- pinning him down, pressing himself, hot and hard, against every inch of Harry’s body. He just wants everything and there’s so little time and space, before he can put it all in order Harry is dropping to his knees.

“ _God_ , babe,” Zayn’s voice echoes around the room, throaty and just as rough as it was last night.

The memory coils heat in Harry’s belly as he flicks his grass green eyes up, watching Zayn watch him mouth at the growing print of his dick through his soaking grey sweatpants. Zayn throws his head back and groans, and it makes Harry’s mouth water in anticipation. Half of him wants to wreck Zayn, make him beg for it or drive him to the edge until he’s holding Harry down and making him take it, but he wants this more. To be the first one to make something happen, even if it’s just for tonight.

“Please.” Zayn thumbs at the swell of Harry’s lip while he slides his pants down. “I wanna-” His words die in his throat the moment Harry wraps a hand around him and impatiently licks a long stripe from root to tip. “Fuck, _yeah_.”

Harry sucks him in, massaging his tongue against the thick underside and working his hand around what he can’t reach. The water doesn’t smooth the glide and Zayn hisses, knocking Harry’s grip away gently to feed more of his cock into his mouth, pulling out once or twice to rub the head over Harry’s swollen lips in amazement. He preens, folding his hands behind his back and grinning cheekily up at Zayn as his tongue shoots out to dig into the slit.

“You look so good,” Zayn sighs out, gripping the hair at the crown of Harry’s head and guiding him deeper. “So good, babe.”

The heady taste of precum blooms in Harry’s mouth as he does everything in his power to drive Zayn wild. Everything is so rough and wet it just makes him hotter, as if the water is turning to steam as it hits their backs. Hips ticking in small little bursts, Zayn’s legs start to shake and he’s _so_ responsive it’s obscene. He doesn’t try to stifle the rumbling groans and the sharp curse Harry pulls out of him as he presses his jaw open a little more, letting Zayn fuck his mouth until the tip of Harry’s nose brushes his belly. He pulls off with a gasp and grins up, cherry red, and Zayn looks at him like he can’t decide between throwing him down or yanking him back up to kiss him. Harry knows he’s good, it’s kind of his thing.

“ _Harry_ ,” Zayn whimpers and Harry hums around his cock, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. “Oh god, you’re so sweet. Look at you, _shit_.” He lets out another broken groan. “Knew you wanted this,” he pants as Harry’s cheeks hollow. “It’s been driving me crazy.”

“You knew, huh?” Pulling off, Harry’s voice sounds fucking demolished, and he likes it way too much.

“Shut up,” Zayn shakes his head, voice tight, looking unbearably fond considering what they’re in the middle of doing as his fingers curl under Harry’s jaw. “You knew how bad I wanted this too.” 

“Are you close, Zap?” Opening his hands against Zayn’s thighs, Harry traces the seam of his sac with his tongue while Zayn pumps himself slowly.

“Yeah,” he rushes out desperately. “Fuck, yeah.”

Harry hikes his eyebrows wickedly and leans in one more time to envelop Zayn into the tight, wet, heat, his lips stretched and tingling at the corners. His cock kicks in the confines of his ridiculous skinny jeans and it only makes him go for it harder, bobbing his head until nonsense is tumbling from Zayn’s lips. Everything feels fuzzy at the edges except for Zayn, solid and pulsing under his touch. Even the water still streaming over them barely shakes him as Harry makes a stupid pun in his head about cold showers.

It feels so good, he’s hooked on Zayn’s every move. He can’t stop from moaning himself as he takes his cock deep into the clutch of his throat one more time before Zayn’s tugging his head back to stare up at him.

“Gonna come,” he urges, his chest flushing pink when Harry sticks his tongue out in wait. “That’s it, babe-” He cuts himself off with a lurching gasp, spilling all over Harry’s lips.

Chasing the freezing water pouring down over them, Zayn falls forward and tackles Harry to the ground, kissing the taste of himself out of Harry’s mouth before it’s washed away. It’s so rushed and unabashed it makes Harry’s chest hurt a little, but that’s nothing compared to the throbbing of his poor trapped dick in his _Joes_. He bucks his hips up until Zayn properly swings himself into his lap and takes the hint, popping his button with shaking hands.

“What the fuck, H,” he grumbles, desperately trying to peel the material down Harry’s thighs.

It’s almost funny how many times Harry has found himself in this position the last couple of days- pants around his knees and itching to get off in this grimy hostel bathroom over a boy he barely knows, but then Zayn’s hand wraps around his length and the comedy sort of flies out the window. Plus, he does know Zayn. He knows the gleam in his eyes as he presses their foreheads together and dots open mouthed kisses all over Harry’s neck, and he knows the apprehension that breaks through the cockiness in his voice when he murmurs, “is this okay, babe?” even though they both know Zayn already has him. He knew that second night.

“Amazing,” Harry bites out through a laugh, so Zayn doesn’t have a doubt in his mind. “Don’t stop, never stop.”

He slips a finger to tease up against his hole and jerks him off hard and fast, like teenagers on the verge of getting caught. But when Harry comes, it’s so good. Like, fucking supernova good. The crash makes his legs straighten out and his toes curl, he sees white, and he holds onto the Zayn so tightly he thinks he’ll break apart without him there to ground him.

“Jesus.” Harry blinks the water out of his eyes.

Zayn’s there, his ridiculous bleached blonde hair falling in his eyes as he strokes the side of Harry’s face. Slowly, he brings a finger to his mouth to suck away Harry’s come, brows furrowed deeply in thought. It’s sexy as hell and hilarious all at once and Harry has to run a hand over the back of his own head to make sure he didn’t accidentally whack it on the floor, giving himself a hallucinatory concussion.

“What now?” Zayn’s voice catches.

Harry cranes his neck up and pauses, letting Zayn lean in and meet him halfway. They kiss more gently now, meticulous with each other, which is a little moot at this point but it sends Harry’s stomach fluttering all of the same.

“Dinner?” he asks eventually.

“That’s out of order, isn’t it?” Zayn shoots him a lopsided grin while he climbs out of his lap. “You already let me get to third base.”

“Haha,” Harry deadpans, reaching an arm out so Zayn can pull him to his feet. “I mean, do you fancy going downstairs and grabbing a bite? Or like, I can go out and-”

“No,” Zayn interjects. “That sounds great.”

They get dressed and head downstairs to the hostel’s cafeteria in easy silence, stealing furtive, affectionate glances at each other as they gather their food and wander out to the back courtyard to eat. The chill sticks to their damp hair but it’s worth the freedom from the dull hum of background conversation invading their little bubble. Harry suddenly feels overwhelmed by the energy that used to fuel him, zooming in on this one hot wire instead. There’s so much he wants to say to Zayn- a thousand questions and a million conversations he wants to have, but tomorrow Zayn is going to be in love with someone else and he doesn’t want to start something he can’t finish. No matter how much it feels like they’ve already begun.

“I decided…” He starts finally, and Zayn’s eyes light up in interest. Harry clears his throat. “I’m gonna go to Paris.”

He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Zayn smile so broad. “That’s incredible, man.” His arm shoots forward to grab his hand but Zayn veers himself to the left halfway through, landing a clap on Harry’s shoulder. “I’m really… I’m excited for you. A little jealous too, I’ll admit,” he shrugs. “Always wanted to go.”

“You’re gonna have a riot, tomorrow,” Harry tells him. “This whole trip will be worth it.”

“It already is,” Zayn blurts out and makes a face at his own frankness. “This has been fun it’s been- it’s been good, H. It’s gonna suck to see you go.”

“You can finally have a room all to yourself. You must be counting down the days,” Harry teases.

He doesn’t mention that he’s stayed three days longer than he meant to. They both already know why but neither want to take responsibility, so he doesn’t mention it.

Fixing his eyes on his dinner, Zayn purses his lips. “When are you…”

“Day after tomorrow, probably,” Harry finishes. “The deadline to sign up for courses is next week and I should probably find a place to live,” he laughs, trying not to make this worse than it already is. “And get ready for my mother to come down next month so she doesn’t take it so hard. Just seems like the right thing to do.”

“Yeah,” Zayn clears his throat. “Yeah. Are you nervous?”

“It’s a big change.” He chews at the corner of his lip. “Travelling for the last two months has sort of led me into it. I miss my sister, my roommates, but I think I could be okay on my own.”

A glimmer of something close to pride dances through Zayn’s expression. “You will be.”

“I’m going to miss you, for what it’s worth,” Harry throws out lightly, like it means less than it does. “It’s gonna suck for me too.”

“It better,” Zayn shoves him. “Don’t forget me when you’re off designing the next Centre Pompidou or whatever.”

“No way,” Harry grimaces. “That thing is hideous, are you kidding me? Who turns a building inside out? The architect should have been exiled or like, shot.”

“You’re so pretentious.”

Harry scrunches his nose up at him. “Prick.”

Their knuckles brush while they put away their plates, and they’re kissing again before they even get back to their room. Harry falls back against the wall as Zayn fumbles for the key, laughing into his mouth as he tries and fails nearly six times until he gets it. Once they start they can’t stop. Touching Zayn is so addictive now that the seal is broken. Harry wants to live pressed against him in their shitty little room- covered in paint and strewn clothing and pens and their sketchbooks all jumbled together until neither of them know whose is whose. It’s like they were meant to overlap like this.

The air between them snaps before things start to pick up. Zayn’s hands twist in the hem of his shirt and Harry can feel it bubbling inside of him- the pure _desire_. The understanding that what he’s about to do is wrong for him but he’s going to do it anyway. With anyone else who he wasn’t going to lose in the morning, he would.

Every part of him is screaming to let Zayn lay him down, pin his hands to the sheets with his own and fuck him open slow and deep until Harry can’t think. It’s all he wants in the whole word and it’s a damn shame. Just like the night before, and the one before that, things haven’t changed- he can’t. Harry knows this time there’s no walking away unscathed.

“Zap… Zayn. Can we-” They break apart gasping. “Can we just, uhm, lie down for a while?” Harry can’t look him in the eyes, focusing instead on his heaving chest.

“Yeah,” Zayn traces a knuckle down the side of his neck. “Whatever you want, babe.”

“I just-”

“It’s fine,” Zayn cuts him off gently, because deep down, Harry thinks he understands. “We don’t have to do anything. I only- I want to be present, here. Yeah?”

Nodding, Harry’s limbs tense up and shake as Zayn pulls him under the covers, running his hands over his arms and shoulders until the muscles go loose. Tension slides away, fizzling against the cool sheets. They lie on their sides and lock their ankles, nose to nose and blinking through the darkness.

“We forgot to put the silver color in,” Harry laments, fingering a soft strand of Zayn’s hair.

“You’ll help me do it in the morning, yeah?”

Harry’s lying when he says yes.

“I tried not to do this.” Taking a deep breath, Zayn fills the growing silence. “Those first couple of days… I know I pinned some things on you because I saw them in myself too,” he sighs. “That drive to find someone else to use up all of your attention, it gets away from me.”

“You weren’t so bad.”

“I didn’t want to take advantage or- or have that become what we were. Because…”

Harry curls in a little bit and presses their lips together, tasting the unsaid words.

 _I like you_.

He wants to hear it and shout it back. But it would only get in their way now with the hours they have left.

“I tried to hold back too,” Harry admits quietly. “But it’s because I knew- this is so fucking corny- I knew I would run into something eventually and there would be more. It’s like you _push_ me, Zap. I don’t know why you bother-”

“Couldn’t help it.”

Harry grins into his pillow. “But you pushed me and you let me be, all at once.”

“I was only following your lead, mate,” Zayn’s mouth smacks into a grin and they’re so free with each other, it’s impossible to Harry that he has to leave.

“I usually never latch on,” he laughs at himself. “You’re just a pain in the ass.”

“And you always need the upper hand,” Zayn taunts.

“Look who’s talking.”

Zayn folds himself in closer. “I’m so fucking terrified… all of the time, you know? But not with you. I want so _much_ of everything that I can’t hold it all in. I don’t want to, anymore.”

Harry waits for their breath to even out in sync. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for. Ever.” He waits a beat, brushing their lips and sliding his hands around Zayn’s back.

“I loved fucking with you, though” Zayn chuckles into the crook of Harry’s neck. “I hope I didn’t cross a line.” His tone drops. “I didn’t mean to try and take a piece of you with me.”

“It’s okay,” Harry ropes in a deep breath. “I want you to.”

Zayn’s eyelids start to grow heavy as they whisper in the dark. And as soon as he’s asleep, Harry forces himself to untangle their limbs and start to pack.

**Day 7**

It’s not his proudest moment when Harry sneaks out that morning.

He pines like a little bitch, dragging his feet and making a little too much accidental noise in the juvenile hope that Zayn will wake up and stop him. He doesn’t.

Wringing his hands, Harry speaks to the woman at the front desk as quietly as he can while he checks out, as if anyone who spots him would know exactly what he was up to. He can’t be running away if it’s the right thing to do. He doesn’t want Zayn to be stuck in the middle answering awkward questions and truthfully, Harry doesn’t want to say a proper goodbye if it means looking over Zayn’s shoulder at the guy who gets to keep him.

Besides, Harry’s never gotten in trouble for leaving before. He does it well, gracefully. He’s never fancied himself as the type of person people miss- the charm of Harry Styles is in his fleeting nature. No one dreams about him for a year after they’ve met and goes looking for him. No one in all of the beds he’s abandoned in the middle of the night has ever tried to follow him. And no one tried to talk him out of travelling far away from home for an entire trimester.

As he treks through the early morning dew, Harry knows he’s being petty and self-pitying. If his friends and family back home had their way he’d be in a shitty bar in North London with his sister on one side and Louis and Liam on the other. When you want what’s best for someone else you should never get in their way- look at where he is now. But still, Harry wishes one of the many someones he’s met in his life would have asked him to stay.

This is why it’s so hard to call up his poor, saintly mum and tell her he’s not coming home to be the engineer she always wanted. She’s the only one who’s ever expected anything from him and he can’t deliver, but after an hour he hears the smile in her voice when she tells him she’s happy. She’ll miss him, she says, but in the end everyone is going to go in the direction they’re meant to go. He wants to believe that.

The conflicted back and forth in Harry’s head tires him out by noon. Planting himself back in the middle of the square where he spent his first day, Harry orders a cup of coffee and cracks open a fresh pack of graphite pencils. Nothing draws his eye but he gives it time… until an hour passes, and then another. All of his sketches die half outlined on the page and Harry blinks against the blankness taking up space in his brain, as if there simply isn’t any more room for him to sit back and copy.

So he orders dinner from the same place, projects that empty space in front of him, and builds something himself.

It’s crude, at first, like some halfcocked draft from first year design lab. The spatial dynamics are too large for him to scale and for some reason not one store in the area has a ruler he can borrow, but soon the angles start to hinge together themselves and it _works._ The doors are too broad because Harry wants it to be, he likes it that way, the roof is entirely impractical, and the frame pulls from all of its sleek and modern hypothetical neighbors. He shades the exterior like it’s made of light washed stone because he’s missed stone, in this old/young city. The café behind him is eclectic and colorful but the business building across from him is grey, and he wants to make his own in-between.

He makes up a story inside of the walls. The rationale calms him as he maps the hardware and the strategy- imagining a family in a two bedroom on the third floor. They would want a wide master suite with the window, and it takes Harry a few minutes to figure out a way to let light into the rest of the rooms too. It’s not perfect, the kitchen would be too small for a table and suddenly he’s thinking of himself eating on the floor and passing a box of takeout back and forth with a soft eyed boy. He smiles to himself as he adds a laundry room big enough for two and a wide, sturdy wall waiting to be colored over with spray paint.

Harry drinks a bottle of wine himself while he draws, and then another until he can’t remember how to do basic trigonometry and his head hurts in that dull, satisfied kind of way. What he’s made isn’t great, hell it’s probably not even within the realm of architecturally sound, but he feels clean, and suddenly so very sure. All he wants once the café kicks him out to close up is to show it to Zayn.

Earlier, when Harry had folded and snuck a look at Eacebook, he’d seen the spatter of pictures Zayn had been tagged in and Harry recognizes some of the faces from the photos Zayn had showed him of the year before. He did end up putting the silver in his hair after all, and it looks brilliant in the sun. A little bit of dye and sweat has run down his neck from dancing too hard. And the boy next to him is fucking unreal. Harry knew he would be- all blonde, freckles, and a gigawatt smile just as Zayn described. Niall.

Harry could totally take Niall. And his skinny chicken arms.

But he looks like he makes Zayn happy- based on the picture of his arm hooked around his neck and their temples knocking as they beam at the camera. The thing he was most afraid of was Niall falling short, not living up to what Zayn deserves or, even worse, rejecting him. But that’s impossible, the kid would have to be off his rocker. Harry hopes Niall convinces Zayn to dance and kisses away the self-consciousness in his brow. He hopes Zayn never forgets this trip, and Harry can make peace with the fact that it won’t be because of him.

So Harry thinks he can stomach meeting Niall as he convinces the hostel’s security guard that he’s forgotten his keys and scurries up to their floor. As long as Zayn is happy. The hallways are as buzzing as the Friday night before but no one notices him there. Harry is too busy drunkenly laughing to himself about the fact that Zayn never did put a sock on the door to think about how he could just, like, call him in the morning like a reasonable person instead of camping outside.

Maybe he just wants to make sure Niall is as good as Zayn’s dreams, that he’ll be everything for him. Or maybe he wants to torture himself. As Harry dozes off, he waits happily to be woken up and yelled at for being a twat. Which is exactly what happens around 3 a.m.

“Idiot,” someone hisses in his ear as a pair of hands shake him roughly by the shoulders. “Are you kidding me?”

Toppling over onto his side, Harry blinks through his pounding headache with a syrupy smile. “Heyyyyy.”

“What the fuck, man, where did you go this morning? I should leave you out here,” Zaun grumbles, hauling Harry to his feet anyway.

“Noooo,” Harry whines. “I don’t wanna interrupt, just let me… it’s comfy out here.”

“You aren’t sleeping in the hallway, asshole.” Zayn digs his elbow into Harry’s side. “Besides, no one’s here.”

“Don’t throw him out because of me.”

“It’s fine.”

“No, Zayn! You’ve been looking forward to this for-”

“Niall didn’t come home with me, okay?” Zayn slams the door behind them.

Harry tries to understand. “What? He’s- he’s fucking blind for turning you down.”

“He didn’t,” Zayn grunts. “Get your shoes off, you’re going to track dirt on the bed.”

Harry flops his tired limbs across the clean sheets. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I really wanted you and Niall to work out. That’s why I-”

“That’s why I woke up alone?” Zayn huffs as he lies down beside him.

Harry closes his eyes, thoroughly confused but way too exhausted to do anything about it. “I wanted you to stop being scared, Zap. I wanted you to have that with someone.”

“Idiot,” Zayn says again, biting his lip as his pointer finger delicately traces the circles under Harry’s eyes. “I already do.”

Harry keeps himself awake for as long as he can, waiting for it all to dissipate back into nothing. All Zayn does is insult him under his breath one more time and pull him into his chest, rubbing a steady hand up and down his spine until Harry sinks back under. He dreams of looking out over a skyline of a thousand moving parts, shifting and settling into place like jagged puzzle pieces. Somewhere, halfway through, he steps down to the street and his footsteps fall in time with the sound of Zayn’s breathing a thousand miles away.

**Day 8**

He feels like death when he wakes back up. But it’s a fair tradeoff, Harry decides, because Zayn is still there, flicking through his phone as sunlight from the window pours over him like a fucking fallen angel.

“Hey,” he rasps out.

“Hey.” Pushing Harry’s hair out of his eyes, Zayn knits his brows together and gives him a small smile. “Go brush your teeth, you fuckin’ lush.”

“What happened last night?” Harry stretches out his arms dramatically.

He knows, but he wants to make sure.

“You passed out outside my door like a lunatic.” Zayn gives him an affectionate little shove to get going. “Because you wanted to make sure I was getting some, apparently.”

“No- well, yeah,” Harry admits. “I’m sorry that didn’t happen.”

“I’m not,” Zayn snorts. “I told you this, keep up.”

Harry’s limbs feel too big for his body and he tries not to overstep. “I came back because I, erm, I felt bad about taking off-”

“You should.”

“And I wanted to show you something.”

“Yeah?”

Harry snaps to full attention. “You aren’t mad at me?”

“Of course I am,” Zayn scoffs. “But I understand. And I like you more than I like being mad.” He lets out a heavy exhale. “What did you want to show me? Give it here.”

Scrubbing at his tired eyes with the heel of his hands, Harry digs out his sketchpad sheepishly. “It’s awful but… I don’t know. I started my own design last night and I haven’t had the guts to do that in god knows how long.”

“It’s not awful,” Zayn protests as Harry staggers to the bathroom. “I don’t know what I’m looking at, mind you-”

“An apartment building,” he calls. “But like, art nouveau, and shit.”

“Paris is gonna love you, H.” An awkward silence hangs while Harry hastily shoves a toothbrush in his mouth and changes his underwear. “When, uhm-” Zayn clears his throat. “When is your train?”

“There was one at seven this morning.” He peeks around the door frame to find Zayn, still shirtless in bed waiting for him. “But I wanted more time.” There’s a lump at the base of Harry’s throat made up of all the chances he never took.

He takes this one.

“To see you,” he finishes quietly.

Of course Zayn manages to look effortlessly cool with his stupid silver hair is sticking out in every direction, but his nose still wrinkles adorably when he smiles that smile and says, “me too. Never got a kiss goodbye.”

“God, I was hoping you’d say that.”

Harry practically sprints back and tumbles on top of him. Their lips find each other’s in a clumsy sort of clash, spattered with inhaled laughter and flashing teeth, before Harry twines their fingers together and holds on tight. They don’t have to say any more, that’s the thing with them, they let each other know the important things in one way or another. And Harry quite likes this version.

“Harry,” Zayn murmurs when they push apart, pressing a kiss under his ear. “You still have to go.”

“Shhh, can we just have this, for a moment?” Harry nudges Zayn’s nose with his. “Aren’t you going to tell me what happened to you and dream boy?”

Zayn sighs and shakes his head. “Dream boy was a dream.”

“Very dreamy,” Harry hums.

Whacking him around the ears, Zayn tussles the smug look off his face. “I don’t know if I used the _idea_ of him to give myself the push I needed to finally make a life away from home, or if I thought I could build him up big enough in my head that he would solve everything. It doesn’t matter now.” Zayn slings his thigh around Harry’s waist, laughing quietly to himself. “We had fun, but I don’t want to distract myself anymore.”

“Oh.” Harry’s heart beats faster. “What are you gonna do now,” he stammers.

“Dunno,” Zayn shrugs. “I kinda want to stay in this bed with you all day-”

Harry nods fervently in agreement.

“-but I checked, and there’s another train to Paris tonight that I want you to be on it.”

Swallowing heavily, Harry buries his face in Zayn’s hair. “This room is reserved for one more night.”

“You have to go. For me, okay?” Zayn continues. “Go and learn and do what you came here to do.”

“Shut up,” Harry whines.

“Plus… you can scope out all of the best places, so I know where to go when I come and visit you.”

Harry nearly jumps out of his skin. “Really?”

The corners of his mouth twitch, until Zayn gives up any attempt at mystery and breaks into a full grin. “I mean, I have a flight home on Wednesday. There are some things I need to go back and work out. To my family, my friends. But…” his voice drops softly. “Paris seems like a great place to finish a graphic novel, don’t you think?”

Harry surges up to suck Zayn’s bottom lip into his mouth greedily, knocking him on his back while Zayn scoffs in faux annoyance into the kiss. “Perfect place.”

Zayn’s warm palm holds firm at the back of his neck. “Maybe you can help me figure out how to start a bloody uni application while I’m there,” he laughs. “And figure out how to make a proper portfolio out of doodles and illegal street art.”

“Might take a while,” Harry presses back. “You better make sure you pick a hostel that isn’t going to accidentally room you with some new charming bastard who-”

“No more talking,” Zayn checks his watch before sliding his hands down over the curve of Harry’s as. “Before you go maybe we can just…”

Harry ducks to smudge his mouth along Zayn’s jaw, sucking a filthy mark at his pulse point until he’s brave enough to shove his thigh between his legs. “Yeah, _fuck_ yeah.”

Every nerve lights up with the hitch in Zayn’s breathing and Harry can feel the blush spreading across his chest, warm under his lips, he can taste the freckles dotting lightly down his shoulders. Clean skin bursts with goosebumps as they tear at the rest of their clothes, knocking their knobbly knees together on the tiny bed. Harry feels like his blood is on fire with Zayn’s smile hovering endearingly awkward above him because he didn’t know it could be like this, sickly sweet on his tongue while Zayn’s hands burn like hell, suddenly shaking with nerves just like the rest of him. One person couldn’t possibly be so much all at once.

“You, uhm…” Zayn pauses, skirting his fingers under Harry’s belly button. “Shit, I’m going to mess this up.”

“Couldn’t.” Harry sucks in a harsh breath between kisses and leads Zayn’s hand down the trail of hair disappearing into his waistband. “I want it. I want you.”

“I really like you,” Zayn murmurs as he curls his hand around Harry’s cock, digging his teeth into his bottom lip when Harry’s abs contract like a shock. “Like, it’s mad, how much I like you.”

“Honestly, my expectations aren’t that high.” He manages a wicked grin. “You can’t be amazing at sex too, that just wouldn’t be fair.”

A desperate noise punches from the back of Zayn’s throat and he dives back in, nipping and sucking relentlessly at Harry’s throat until he’s squirming underneath him, bucking his hips into his hand. “You’ll see, won’t you?” His honeyed eyes flick up to catch Harry’s soft nod of permission and then he’s moving, down and down until Harry’s vision goes blurry.

Kneeling between his splayed legs, Zayn thumbs at the tiger on Harry’s thigh before rubbing the one on his own arm self-consciously, smirking to himself. Harry wonders dreamily if they’d known each other in another life, to be so in tune so quickly like this. But Zayn does fumble in his graceful way as he tugs down Harry’s briefs, fingers darting down his V line anxiously until finally, _finally_ , he dips to close his lips around the head of his cock.

“Wait, lemme see you,” Harry gasps out.

“Shh, babe.” Zayn hums a laugh when Harry lets out an embarrassingly broken noise, flattening his tongue like he can’t get enough.

With anyone else Harry would be climbing by now, pulling hair and whispering little demands, not bothering to worry about the other person until he needed more. Zayn’s not better than any of them, not objectively, but he looks so untouchable and bold where his mouth is sliding up and down Harry’s length he kind of feels like he shouldn’t dare. The wet heat is so pliant and Zayn’s fingers wrapped around him are so firm and sure Harry doesn’t know whether to give or take. He thinks, before another blindingly hot shudder runs down his spine, that for them it’s a split between both.

“Do you have anything?” Harry groans out as Zayn’s fingers start to trace lightly behind his balls, giving him a quick squeeze and another muffled moan when Harry blurts a splash of precum across the roof of his mouth.

Pulling up with an obscene pop, Zayn grins. “Is that really a question?” He reaches further to press his thumb dry against Harry’s hole while he pretends to think it over.

“Right,” Harry could kill him, if he doesn’t get on with it. “You’ve spent an entire week here just to get laid. Didn’t think it would be me though- _fuck._ ” His eyebrows arch and Zayn responds with a clever swipe over Harry’s slit.

“Yeah I did,” Zayn murmurs, clambering off the bed. “Every single night. I had _plans_ , man.” He shakes his head as he rifles through his bag for a condom and a small bottle of lube. “Talking myself out of it was torture.” Peering over his shoulder, his eyes go black at the sight of Harry splayed out on the bed, his cock lying heavy and aching on his stomach. “Christ, be good and turn over for me, yeah?”

Harry’s body tenses with the desperate urge to touch himself as he flips himself on his belly so quickly that he almost goes tumbling to the floor.

“Eager?” Zayn smirks, kicking off his underwear and giving his curved, flushed length a few exploratory pumps.

Harry whines, folding himself back on his knees, reaching his arms flat forward, and biting his lip, watching Zayn’s chest tighten as he walks back towards him, slow and deliberate. It had been so long, not since before the trip, that Harry has let someone have him like this. God, he fucking loves taking it but this is one of those things- when he fucks other people it’s simple, girls he likes are warm and wild and the boys are challenging and thrilling to bend, but on the other side it has to be the right person. It has to be a little bit more.

The bed sinks behind him before Harry feels a hand pulling him up, back flush against Zayn’s chest. Tipping his chin over his shoulder, Harry lets himself be kissed breathless until his body goes soft, relaxing into Zayn’s pointer finger teasing his rim and slipping inside of him. He hisses at the cold, slippery wetness on his skin but Zayn licks the noise out of his mouth as he works in a second digit, pushing Harry down onto his forearms.

“Alright?” He rasps, running his hand through Harry’s curls, tugging just so, to open up the nape of his neck to his roaming mouth.

“ _Zayn_ ,” Harry chokes on a moan as his clever fingers twist and scissor inside of him, slipping deeper to search for his prostate. “One more, please. _Please_.”

“Anything you want, babe,” Zayn coos in his ear until his smooth voice falters at the desperate arch of Harry’s back pressing against him. “ _Shit_ , you make me so hard. Always make me so hard, H, I’ve been sneaking away to get off for days.”

Sweat pools at Harry’s hairline even though the air is fresh and crisp around them, gentle sunlight falling through the window. But the sweetness is caramelizing so beautifully from the rising heat it sparks at Harry’s nerve endings, nearly shooting out of his skin when Zayn’s fingers finally find that perfect spot inside of him. He can’t help rutting down on the bed like a horny teenager having a wet dream, trying to ignore Zayn’s amused tuts as he locks his free arm around the curve of Harry’s hip to hold him still.

“Taking it so well.” Zayn scrapes his teeth behind Harry’s ear and curls his digits sharply. “Almost there.”

Harry knows he hasn’t seen the half of it yet and it’s already so damn good. Just like everything else with Zayn he doesn’t know what to focus on the most. He doesn’t want to miss the scratch of his stubble or the flutter of his eyelashes against Harry’s shoulder blades, the deep rumbling of his voice or the sounds falling from his lips, the way his fingers stretch him so incredibly. Everything. _Everything._

“Wanna see you,” Harry manages to say between harsh gasps. “Wanna watch you fuck me.”

“Oh fucking twist my arm,” Zayn laughs as Harry ambles onto his back with a loose grin. “It hurts to look at you, you know.”

“Just get on with it,” Harry grabs at Zayn’s golden forearms and sighs at the emptiness inside of him. “Or we’ll have to do it in the bathroom at the train station.”

“That’s not a bad idea.” Zayn quips, his eyelashes casting a shadow on his cheeks while he rolls on the condom. “Ready?”

Harry hikes his brows. “Seriously?”

“You’re so difficult.” Diving down on top of him, Zayn presses one of Harry’s thighs back against his chest and kisses him soundly.

Harry turns his face to bite into the pillow as Zayn’s cock slowly fills him up. He’d forgotten how good it felt to have someone holding him open, with two pulses in his body and unrelenting lips begging for his. It takes him a moment to remember how to be so shameless, as if that isn’t the way he lives his life any other day, and reciprocate. Nothing he can do for Zayn could be as good as this.

“Oh,” he breathes. “Oh, god.”

“Hey.” Suddenly, Zayn’s hands are cupping his face and pressing their foreheads together. “It’s okay, H, tell me what you want. We can-”

“No,” Harry groans. “Jesus, fuck, don’t stop. You feel so... _move_ , Zap.”

“Don’t call me that,” Zayn grunts into his neck, but Harry can feel his cheeks stretching into a smile.

Harry rakes his nails down his back in return, rutting himself between the friction on his dick where it’s trapped between their bodies and the pressure inside of him. Somehow Zayn’s hands circle around his wrists to pin them to the bed on either side of Harry’s head as he picks up his pace, rolling his hips over and over and deeper and deeper until pleasure is coursing through Harry like the tide. His instincts take him back and forth, pushing up against Zayn’s heaving chest one moment and allowing himself to be rocked hard into the mattress the next, but soon enough Zayn makes the choice for him. Pressing a frantic kiss to the corner of Harry’s mouth, Zayn lopes his arms under Harry’s legs to rest in the crook of his elbows, spreading them impossibly further. Harry only grins and works himself onto Zayn faster, he couldn’t feel exposed with him now if he tried.

The new angle sends Harry’s head flying back and unfiltered gasps rattling from his lungs. He’s praying that all of their neighbors are out in the middle of the day because he has no intention of holding back, not with Zayn looking down at him like this bed is the only place he ever wants to be again. And he tells him as much, leaning down to flick his tongue at the shell of Harry’s ear as he pounds into him.

“That’s it.” Harry realizes his hands are still flopped uselessly beside him and tangles his fingers in Zayn’s hair, twisting through the bleached strands until his hips stutter in their rhythm.

“ _Harry_ ,” Zayn chants his name under ragged moans and loses himself for a moment, blinking the wildness out of his eyes to kiss him again. “Are you close? I wanna, _fuck-_ ”

“Can you, god, touch me, touch me,” Harry pleads.

Grinding his hips, Zayn drops Harry’s boneless lower half back on the mattress to wrap a hand around his cock, using the barest amount of pressure. “Make it last,” he swears again under his breath. “Not until you’re shaking with it, babe.”

“Zayn, _please_.” Harry cants into the loose ring of contact around him, right on the edge, before Zayn grabs the side of his waist and buries himself right against Harry’s prostate, knocking the resistance right out of his muscles.

Harry honestly feels like his brain is flowing out of his dick when he comes. He can’t control the snapping teeth at Zayn’s shoulder or the stars popping in the corner of his vision, or the way he can’t stop kissing him and kissing him while Zayn follows him into oblivion. He can’t even think of anything remotely coherent to say during the first few minutes they spend breathing into each other’s hair and stewing in dissipating madness. Harry thanks god for their flair for the dramatic, because nothing has knocked him out like this all year. He can’t fathom ever moving again.

But they do, they have to, and Zayn pulls out of him slowly, rubbing a hand against Harry’s stomach before stumbling up to grab them a towel.

“Do you have time to shower before the train?” He asks with a sigh, nosing into Harry’s shoulder.

“Probably not,” Harry murmurs. “Wanna smell like you anyway. That was fucking intense.”

“We smell like a whorehouse,” Zayn huffs out a laugh. “Especially if you put your god awful cologne on top of it-”

“Hey…” Harry’s draws out the word until Zayn muffles it with his lips.

“Definitely going to have to ask for new sheets if I’m going to be able to get any sleep tonight.” Zayn eyes the stained white cotton mournfully. “Lucky you didn’t bite a hole in that pillow or I would have made you pay for it.”

“Your fault,” Harry replies, still a little breathless at the memory. “Can we lie here until we absolutely have to go?”

“Only if we can stay naked.” Zayn kicks his legs back up on the bed and folds her arms behind his head.

“Playing with fire, that is.” Harry shifts into the curve of his body.

The hostel hums quietly around the two of them, wrapped up in that tiny single bed. Both of them are too tired to do anything but kiss while the sweat evaporates off their skin. Harry thinks going for broke suits them. Plans are painted in broad strokes of _if_ and _when_ across the ceiling above them and immediately let go once they’ve finished packing, because the unexpected is so much sweeter. Harry notices at least three of his shirts shoved in with Zayn’s things, but he’s got a pair of his jeans and nearly half of his socks at the bottom of his own backpack, so he lets it slide. They can sort it out later.

Harry holds his hand and knows that nothing is certain. Sometimes people fade away and promises fall through, he practically wrote the book on all of it. Jesus Christ it had only been a week. This easy pull could be nothing, or it could be everything. He’s got too much else to focus on in Paris to talk himself out of the only thing that has got him there in the first place.

Leaving a new city always felt like the end of a winding story, but Berlin stretches forward, open ended. For someone so in love with endings, Harry is surprisingly okay with that. Who else gets the chance to live in endless autumn, golden leaves whipping around them outside of the Central Station. Maybe Zayn is a tally mark in the inside cover of Harry’s sketchbook, but he will always be the letters burned into the skin stretched over his hip. A splash of paint across Harry’s memories. And when they kiss goodbye on the platform for the 9 p.m. train to Paris, it tastes like hello.

**Author's Note:**

> Like I said, they're super gross  
> [feel free to hit me up on tumblr or leave a comment below!](http://www.indiepoptrash.tumblr.com)  
> xxoo


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